Silent Hill: Ode to Deivos
by Glendaal ala Wardrobe
Summary: Your deeds will not go forgotten. Sleep within thyself, where no further evils can harm you. Submit yourselves therefore to God. Resist the devil, and he will flee from you. NOTE: All chapters now up.
1. Condition

**SILENT HILL : ODE TO DEIVOS**

_I'd just like to point out that this story is a non-profit fan-fiction and that I do not own Silent Hill. Silent Hill and all related materials are property of the Konami Corporation. _

_I've always wanted to create a psychological tale, so I began to write a story by the name of Daedalus Code, about a man battling against his inner fears. However, no matter how hard I tried, my story just ended up sounding more and more like something straight out of Silent Hill. Seeing as I love the Silent Hill series so much, I decided to adapt my current ideas and create my own Silent Hill fiction. Here it is, I hope you enjoy it. _

_Glen M. Cooper_

_P.S, I must apologise for the large amount of chapters posted on initial publication. I did this because the story has quite a patient build up, and we don't actually visit the town of Silent Hill until chapter 10, roughly halfway through the story. This is where things really start to hot up. Thanks for reading._

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I – Condition 

"You're saying he's a god damn nut job, right Doc?"

That was how stern detective Jim Carter had put it to him, a policeman to a psychiatrist, from one 'professional' to another. He stroked his rough grey beard, immersed in thought. A nut job, if only it were that simple.

No, there was something different about Jack that set him aside from the rest. Was it his calm, collected manner? His well presented appearance, his otherwise clean criminal record? Or perhaps the most important of all, was it that this man, _this killer_, was a well respected and renowned Doctor in the field of forensic medicine, barely two years ago?

"I've seen you before, haven't I?" Jack asks, waiting patiently for the Doctor to finish shuffling through his papers.

Cole looks up at his subject, "Oh?"

"You're on T.V," Jack pinpoints, "World famous psychiatrist, Doctor Bradley Allen Cole,"

Jack reaches across the bland metal desk and offers his hand in greeting. Cole accepts.

"My friends call me Cole,"

"Then what should I call you?"

The Doctor hesitates for a moment, "Just call me Cole,"

Jack leans back on his chair, adjusting his posture accordingly to find some measure of comfort on the hard metal thing. Cole finds himself eyeing the base of the chair, reaffirming in his mind that it's securely bolted down.

"The resident Shrinks couldn't break me so they sent a big-shot like you in, huh?" he cups his hands together, "Oh goodie,"

"They told me to watch out for you," Cole says, raising a slight smile, "Said you were a bit of a hoot. But there's a few things I need to get clear before…"

"Before what?" Jack interrupts, "Before you can slap that straight jacket on me for good?"

Cole takes off his glasses and places them on the metal surface of the table. Rubbing his eyes, he says, "You need to understand that I've been sent here to _help_ you,"

"Help me get revenge?"

"No. It's my job to convince the judges that you deserve a fair trial,"

"I just want revenge,"

"Oh," Cole sighs, putting his glasses back on and picking up a brown paper file.

"Revenge upon…"

"God," Jack snaps, "Revenge upon God,"

The psychiatrist flips a few pages until locating relevant information, "You claim that God brutalised your family, and of course, framed you for the murder of a young lady, an OAP, a little boy and…" Cole looks up at his patient, "A Police Patrolman,"

"That's correct," Jack confirms, his voice solid and sure.

Cole considers this for a minute, before leaning over the table, balancing on his elbows, "You're an intelligent man, Doctor Crispin,"

"I'm not a Doctor anymore, call me Jack,"

"Jack," Cole amends, "You've been declared insane, you want to appeal, I can understand that. Unfortunately, these murders… the evidence is clear and conclusive. In my professional opinion…"

Cole stops to consider his words, "In my _opinion_, I think it would be best if you drop this whole 'God' blaming thing,"

"I'm only telling the truth," Jack replies, "In truth there's justice, right?"

"I can't force you to change your mind," Cole says, "But may I remind you, that this one-hour session, of which you've already wasted ten minutes of arguing with the security guard, is an _interview_. You have to prove to me you aren't… mentally handicapped,"

"I'm _not_ crazy," Jack snaps, "But I'm telling you, whoever or whatever it was that killed those people and my family, wasn't human,"

"But you killed…" Cole stops and starts again, "You claimed your family died in a car crash,"

"It wasn't an accident, it was murder. They ran me off the road and…" Crispin flashes his gaze at Cole and sighs deeply, "Never mind, you've already dismissed me, I can tell,"

"I apologise," Cole sighs, becoming fed up. "Tell me everything you know,"

He was thinking of his wife and daughter back home. Right now his little girl will be watching the clock, counting down every minute from now until he comes home. His wife would be preparing a special meal for him, today being the big five-zero. Funnily enough, it was also their wedding anniversary, twenty-five years of ups and downs, and not for one day had he stopped loving her.

"Are you listening to me Doctor?" Jack asks.

"Yes of course," Cole says, "Please continue,"

"You ever..." he hesitates, "Ever been so drunk that when you wake up the next morning you remember virtually next to nothing?"

Cole nods, a smile creaking onto his face.

"Well imagine that's happened to you but you wake up with blood on your hands and a corpse at your feet. That's the best way to describe it, Doc,"

"You said you were framed, yet there was blood on _your_ hands?"

"I can't really explain it, but I didn't kill those folks. I'm a…. I _was_ a Doctor. _Saving_ lives was my job,"

"Some may argue that, as a Doctor, you're in an ideal place to carry out your sick habits. Having all those patients at your mercy, well… It's not completely unheard of,"

Jack sighs, slouching back in his chair as if already defeated. He folds his arms and stares up at ceiling, "As I suspected, you're just like all the rest,"

"No," Cole interrupts, "The whole reason I'm here is because I'm _not_ like the rest,"

"Then why won't you listen?"

"I am listening Jack, and I'm not encouraged by what I've heard thus far. According to you, and I can play back the tape if you want, there's some kind of zany conspiracy going on. The most shocking factor of all is not that you're the victim, no! It's the fact that this evil organisation that has tore up your life for its own ends, is lead by none other than God, our lord himself,"

"I didn't say _the_ God, I said _a_ God,"

"Oh, I see. Buddha then, is it? Shiva, perhaps? Sorry, my knowledge on famous deities isn't quite as polished as I might like,"

"Cut the sarcasm Doctor, it really isn't helping,"

Jack places his head in his hands and rubs his weary eyes.

"I apologize," Cole says uneasily, "But understand that your story seems a little… far-fetched,"

"Crazy is the word you wanted Doc," Jack corrects, "And believe me, I wouldn't disagree with that. But it _did_ happen. They opened up my brain and took something from me and now here I am in a mental hospital, talking to shrink after shrink about _what went wrong_,"

Cole leans back, his eyes fixed on Jack. With a nod of the head, he reaches into his pocket.

"Cigarette?" he offers.

"They don't let me," Jack replies.

"Don't worry about it," he says, passing over the box and a lighter, "Now. Why don't you tell me everything, right from the beginning?"


	2. Unearthly Crimes

II – Unearthly crimes 

Detective in-the-making Finn Jones stands in the open air outside, gasping for breath like he'd just run across twenty-five blocks. Truth was what he'd just seen inside was enough to make that nauseous feeling tickle the back of his throat within seconds. His partner, the experienced Jim Carter, had told him to catch some breath before coming back inside.

"You're still green," he said, "It'll pass, don't worry,"

How can it ever pass? That girl inside, well… 'a real mess' just wouldn't cut it in the report he'd have to write later. She was hacked and slashed to ribbons, flesh torn apart and tossed around the room messily. It was all over the walls, hanging off lamp fixtures. They even found the dog feeding on scraps of lung tissue that had been left in its bowl. Who could do such a thing?

"Something on your mind, kid?" Carter croaks, flicking the dying remains of his cigar down a nearby drain.

Finn doesn't answer, his gaze fixed firmly on a prostitute over the street trying to flash around some business. Behind her, in the alleyway, a tramp lies motionless, dead probably, and behind him an endless tunnel of blackness, twisting and turning through every nook and cranny of this decrepit city.

Corruption was in the air. It always had been. It was times like this he'd look up at the stars, almost clouded by the ever present veil of murky fog and wonder: when did this become _me_?

He always had these thoughts on clear nights. Reminded him of the day he and his sister had gone their separate ways, Lucinda off to become an insurance investigator and Finn himself joining up with the police force.

"We all look up and see the stars, but everyone's got their own perspective."

Those were her last words to him, as cryptic a leaving note as she could've left. The last words she'd ever say.

"You look a little shaken. Why don't you take the rest of the night off?" Carter offers.

"No, it's fine. I just needed a little breather, is all," Finn assures.

As he walks passed, the experienced cop places a firm hand on his shoulder, "I'm serious, you're as pale as a sheet. Get your ass home,"

"No," Finn bites, shaking Carter's hand away, "I need to do this,"

"You're a Junior Detective, remember? What we got in there, it's sure not the kind of thing juniors need to be seeing',"

"I'm not scared," Finn whines.

"Scared?" Carter quips, "Maybe you ought to be, huh? It don't make you any less of a man for being scared. Some of the best cops on the force know fear like it's the back of their hand. We're all human, right?"

"Tell that to the poor girl lying in twelve pieces behind that door. What she saw tonight wasn't humanity,"

"All I'm saying is that you're training to be a detective, not a beat cop. People like us, we don't get any breaks. Our work is our life. You gotta be ready to get inside that killer's head and think like that motherfucker does, you understand what I'm saying? It ain't the kind of thing you can learn to do overnight,"

"You're my partner, not my boss. I wanna go in," Finn says, "And besides, this ain't the first time I've seen this, right?"

He brushes passed Carter, knocking into him slightly. Carter nods, his lips curling into a slight smile, "Of course. Two years ago,"


	3. Cosy with the Killer

III – Cosy with the Killer 

As Cole waits for the decrepit vending machine to pour his no doubt past its sell-by date coffee into the paper cup below, the local news report catches his ear. He looks over towards the television and takes a few steps towards it.

Murder was as common as raindrops in this city. The news presenter, a pretty young thing by the name of June Summers, reads her autocue with solid sincerity, her condolences going out to the family of the murdered girl. But are they really _her_ condolences? Had she announced this kind of thing so many times that she simply felt nothing of it anymore?

That's how Cole felt. That, in truth, is why he'd moved himself away from sociology and instead opted to focus on the study of the human mind and its frailties.

During his time as a social worker, he simply became sick of people, their problems, fears, what have you. Sick of hearing from the tenth house wife this week that had been beaten by her alcoholic husband; sick of hearing from traumatised fathers, desperately scraping for advice on how to fix their drug addicted daughters. When asked to explain his sudden career venture, he could offer little excuse other than he was in need of a change. In all fairness, he had to get out before he lost his compassion for humanity entirely.

But his chosen field of psychology is different. Crazy people are different, challenging. For a start, they rarely lie, which was an interesting aspect for Cole. Whether what they were saying had any measure of actual truth in it was what Cole was employed to discover.

However, without really noticing it, he slowly found himself being dragged into criminal psychology, why they do what they do. From dealing with aggressive drunk husbands, he had somehow focused his career on even more brutal aspects of city life. And now he was a famous criminologist and his services were sought all over the globe. Why his talent couldn't have been more prevalent in other fields of science he really didn't know.

So looking at another murder on the television didn't hit him the way it used to. In a city this dirty, things just go wrong and dismissing the news, hell turning the damn T.V off, would probably be the most sensible option. Cold and callous, but ultimately true.

He takes a whiff of the coffee the machine has dispensed and decides it would be better off down the sink rather than inside his gut. After a long, deep sigh, he steps outside into the night.

A shrill wind blows around him, caressing the lapels of his ragged evening jacket. The scarf responds violently to the wintry conditions, whipping around and striking his face repeatedly.

He tucks the offending object inside his collar and sighs again. Evening fatigue is setting in and as he wipes the tiredness away from his eyes, the rapidly freezing hairs on his cheek aggravating him, like little icy needles.

The cigarette would be warming but not nearly enough. When did the nights become so cold? About the same time this city did.

Flagging down a passing taxi proved difficult in this neighbourhood. You see, in a place where everybody wanted _out_, it was always a mad rush to secure a good enough exit.

Eventually though, a yellow wayfarer pulls up alongside him. He eyes the dilapidated old vehicle, unimpressed by what he sees. Brahms pit-stop? Who or what is that supposed to be? He shrugs his shoulders and he climbs inside, frantically rubbing his arms to keep warm.

"Where to?" the driver croaks.

"Brackley street, West Town"

The driver nods, pulling away from the kerb without even looking. Cole curses as he notices the chunks of dirty sludge on his trousers, a mixture between dirt, car oil and snow.

"West Town, huh? Some nice places down that way. You rich or something?"

Cole really isn't in the mood for talking with this man. Funny how they had a habit of chewing the fat when he really couldn't be bothered.

"I'm a Doctor," he replies, deciding to humour the driver.

"Wow!" he exclaims, looking back over his shoulder for an alarming amount of time, "Don't you guys have your own cars or nothing?"

"The wife, she's using it today,"

"Ah, women! Can't live with 'em, can't kill 'em,"

Cole chuckles awkwardly at the drivers attempts at conversation.

"Bet you got a lovely wife… and a lovely daughter too,"

"Yeah," Cole replies tiredly.

"Be a shame if something ever happened to them,"

Cole suddenly sits up rigidly on the backseat, recoiling from what appeared to be a threat, "Excuse me?"

"Such a lovely lady, that wife of yours. Sweet, caring… great ass too. And your little girl, we're keeping an eye on her as well,"

"What did you say?" Cole cries, jutting forward.

"You don't catch on too quick do ya, Doc?" the fat faced driver smirks, turning around again, taking his eyes off the road, "We're watching you, and somewhere along the line, we'll get bored of just watching,"

"Who are you?" Cole cries, banging the Perspex sheet separating the two men.

"Settle down, Doctor,"

Cole scrambles frantically for the door handle but it appears to be jammed.

"Come on, I'm insulted!" the driver says, "Just calm down, it's only a few more minutes to your street,"

Cole leans back on the seat, his eyes frantically searching for a means of escape.

"I hate to sound unpleasant Mr. Cole but I just need to make sure the message is clear,"

"What do you want?"

"You're working the Jack Crispin case, trying to get cosy with a killer. Do yourself a favour: stop. Don't see him again, is that clear?"

"Who are you?"

"Is it clear?" the driver cries, tapping a gun on the Perspex.

Cole almost swallows his tongue before muttering, "Clear,"

"Good," the driver says, pulling the car to a screeching halt, "Now get out. You can walk the rest of the way,"

Still baffled by the situation, Cole steps out of the taxi and begins to shuffle away.

"Hey!" the driver calls, "What about the fare?"

The Doctor stops and turns around slowly, "The… fare?"

"Nah, don't worry. Consider it an early Christmas present," the driver laughs, "Good will to all men, y'know,"

He leans closer, glaring at Cole, "There are things in this world you narrow minded folk could never understand. If you know what's good for ya, stay the hell away, or pay the price,"  
The taxi quickly shoots off down the street and takes a right turn out of view. Cole almost falls to his knees, completely shell-shocked by the entire incident. What the hell just happened? He'd been threatened in his line of work before, sure, but that man just made clear threats towards his _family_.

Jack Crispin, fallen Doctor of yesteryear. Framed for murder? Innocent, or guilty as sin? Crazy or sane? Whatever it was, someone was either protecting him, or protecting themselves.

Cole broke into a fast pace, eventually stopping at his front lawn and searching frantically for his keys.

"Gotta call the police," he says to himself, opening up the door and not even bothering to remove his damp coat and snow caked boots in the porch area.

"Honey?" Cole's wife says, the angelic figure appearing from the kitchen, "You're just in time, dinner's ready,"

Wrapping her arms around him, she notices, "You're so pale. Are you ok?"

"I…" Cole stutters, "Need to make a phone call,"

"Oh okay. Well I'm dishing up now, so don't take too long. And don't bring wet clothes in the house,"

She leaves him with a kiss and makes her way back to the kitchen. He couldn't do without her. How dare someone threaten her? Damn them!

As he leaned to pick up the receiver, he recoiled as the phone begins to ring.

"Hello?"

"Bradley, it's Carl,"

Carl Freeman, the chief medical officer in charge of the mental Hospital.

"How'd it go with our friend Mr. Crispin?"

"Uh… he's uh… he's…"

"Crazy?"

"I don't know… not enough time to tell,"

"Then you'll be pleased to know he's taken a bit of a liking to you. Same time tomorrow?"

Same time tomorrow? What about the threat?

"Same time tomorrow, Cole?" Carl repeats.

"Yeah sure. Same time tomorrow,"  
Cole slowly puts the receiver down, a cold wave of anxiety washing over him. Whatever was going on, he could already sense he was getting in too deep.


	4. Coincidence

IV – Coincidence 

Finn Jones stands with arms out, catching snowflakes in his hands, baffled by the sudden change in weather. It hadn't snowed in these parts for years and now they were predicting a full scale blizzard by midnight. Weird, Jack thought, that even with the storm coming, it was no longer cold outside. If anything, the air was warm and stuffy, even now at night. Midnight; no doubt by then he'd be half asleep on his sofa, all alone, finishing off what was left of his cheap liquor.

"Jones, get in here," Carter demands.

Jones manages to peel his weary body off the front of the car and walk along the path to the front door.

"The good Doctor seems to have calmed down," Carter informs, "He's ready to answer some questions,"

"Okay," Finn replies tiredly.

The Doctor sits on a brand new leather couch in the finely furbished lounge and as soon as Finn takes one step inside he cringes at the sight. These rich folk and their money. Made him sick, that he should work his balls off, seeing the things he has to see, only to return to a single roomed apartment with woodlice infestation. 'Work hard and reap the rewards,' Carter always told him. Well the rewards should've been coming by now.

He refocused himself and with a warming smile on his face, shook the Doctor's hand.

"Doctor… Bradley Cole?"

No reply.

"I'm detective Finn Jones. I was told you were ready to answer some questions?"

He better be, Finn thinks to himself. He was about to settle in for an evening's television and beer before the phone rang, one final call out. An upper class Doctor who'd been receiving threats meant they'd have to rush to his urgent need.

"There isn't much to tell," Cole says, "I didn't want to cause a huge scene like this,"

Of course you did, Finn thinks, "Perhaps you could tell me what this is all about?"

"I told the lady on the phone. Someone threatened me and my family. A taxi driver,"

"A taxi driver?"

"Yeah,"

A pause, "Did you get his cab number?"

"I… wasn't thinking straight. Didn't expect it,"

"He dragged you across half of town and you didn't think to look at his number?"

Cole emerges from beneath the veil of his hands, frustrated, "I didn't look, okay? Why are all you Cops so hard to deal with?"

"Calm down sir, I'm just doing my job. This man, this taxi driver… can you describe him?"

"Uh, yeah okay. Just a short fat guy with a bad temper,"

Finn was too tired to squeeze the information out of the Doctor. It was all pointless anyhow, they'd probably have him report to the station later, where all the details would be written down, to be scrutinised later on by the 'better' men on the force.

"Was there anything strange about the inside of the taxi?"

"What kind of question is that?" Cole snaps, "It was just a normal taxi,"

"Any idea why he might be threatening you or your family, Mr. Cole? Was there some kind of hostility prior to these threats?"

Cole hesitates, reassessing the situation properly for the first time, "It has something to do with a patient I'm seeing…"

Finn doesn't stop to take notes like other junior detectives might. He simply listens and all the information and it sticks with him, even in this fatigued state.

"You're a… criminal psychiatrist, right?"

"Yeah and it seems my new patient has friends… or enemies, that want to keep him in secure in his straight jacket,"

Finn tilts his head to the side, pondering the information he's been given.

"Jones!" the call comes, breaking his concentration.

Carter is beckoning him from the porch.

"I' need to leave. Something else has come up. Hitch a ride home in a squad car,"

"Right,"

"The Captain wants a report on his desk first thing tomorrow,"

"First thing? I'm already working over now,"

"Overtime?" Carter laughs, "I told you. If you wanna be a detective, your job is your life. There's no such thing as overtime. Get that report written, it should only be a short one,"

"What about the family?"

"I'm posting Hernandez on guard duty for the night,"

The following morning comes and no further snow has fallen. No blizzard as predicted. Finn curses his luck, hoping it would somehow cake the streets so he couldn't make his way to work.

He stares down at the report he's written, a measly two-paged brief with little meaningful information. His mind had drawn a blank when assessing all the points, mainly because there wasn't much to say. The case, if there was a case, was little more than a mystery at this point.

A half empty bottle of vodka sits on the table, reminding him of how much he drunk last night (before eventually falling asleep in front of some dumb chat show). Fortunately, the hangover is clean enough that he can ignore it, push it aside like all the other tired afflictions he is suffering with.

He almost forgets the report, walking half way out of his building before turning back to collect it, damned thing. A girl, Ellison Lee, was butchered yesterday, her young life cruelly snatched from her, yet all the bigwigs at the force could think about was jumping to the aid of this rich Doctor who'd been threatened by some irate tax driver. Protect and serve, justice for all… bias to the rich and powerful.

The station is cold inside, the half-melted snow overflowing at the doorstep turning the marble floor into some kind of slippery death trap. He doesn't have to walk too far to find the Captain's office.

"I said first thing, Detective,"

"Sorry, Chief," Finn says, slumping into a chair, "Traffic was hell,"

The chief, Fiona Jameson, holds out her hand. Finn passes her the report.

The most amazing thing about Fiona Jameson was in fact, that she was a woman. There had been cops at this precinct that had found difficulty in accepting her as their new Chief, all those months ago. But Finn had seen it pretty clear and pretty fast: Fiona Jameson was a complete hard ass, more than capable of filling the previous Chief's shoes.

She stares at him through rectangular specs, before looking back down at the creased paper, "My eight year old could write a better crime scene report that this, Jones,"

Jones replies with a mere shrug of his shoulders, inviting himself to a cigar, thinking the chief isn't looking.

"Don't touch those!" Jameson snaps.

"But you don't smoke,"

She looks up at him with a cold glare, "They were a gift. Put it down,"

Finn does so, but not without a sigh of discontent loud enough for the Captain to hear, if she was interested in hearing it.

"So, you heard the latest?"

"Chief?"

"Here's a coincidence for you. Dr. Cole's patient: guess who?"  
Finn pauses, before urging her to continue.

She throws a file down on the desk for his perusal, "You've seen him before, right?"

The Chief didn't even need to ask. The man in the file is a murderer, a slayer of men, women and children. What made this one special, it was the first killer than Finn Jones had captured and brought in.

"Cole's patient is Jack Crispin, the Family Killer himself," the Chief says.

"What does this mean?" Finn asks.

"I don't believe in coincidences, Detective. Just last night you were standing at the crime scene of a murder with all the hallmarks of a Jack Crispin kill. Couple of hours after that and a well respected Doctor who's currently treating Jack Crispin receives threats of violence upon him and his family,"

"But Crispin is in the mental institute. How could he of killed that girl?"

"He couldn't. But there must be a connection, Finn. I want you and Carter to find it, fast. Dr. Cole is a well respected member of this community and close friend to our good Mayor. We have to be seen to be doing something on this case,"

"Yeah, yeah, I know,"

Behind the cool exterior, Finn starts to grow nervous. If there is a connection between the murder of Ellison Lee and the threats made on Doctor Cole, then he'd be getting his wish, justice for the murdered.

But at the same time, he'd be in direct pursuit of killer capable of the acts of extreme violence Jack Crispin had committed two years ago. Once more he'd be placed in the most dangerous place you could be in this city: in the sights of a psychopath. But it was his job, be he experienced enough or not.

One thing was for sure. He could forget about his Christmas holidays.


	5. Location

V – Location 

On to his fourth coffee of the morning, Cole leans back in his chair, finally getting over the pre-session nerves. He hadn't worried about one of his sessions in a good long while, but after last night, well…

"This is nice," Jack says.

"I got us moved to a more comfortable room,"

"What's with the pigs outside?"

"Protection,"

"Come on Doctor. You don't think I'm going to jump up and murder you with my bare hands do you?"

"It's a precaution. They're here for your protection just as much as mine,"

"Well… that's a new one,"

"Jack, I need your help,"

"Doctor Cole, you're beginning to confuse me,"

"I told you, just Cole,"

He leans over the desk, "Do you have any friends or enemies on the outside, people who might strive to protect… or even harm you?"

"I had friends… needless to say they wouldn't want to know me these days. But enemies…?"

"I'm not sure if I should tell you this. I've been trying to decide whether it's appropriate to our relationship,"

"Ah hell Doc, you've got me all interested now,"

He leans closer, not wanting the police men outside the door to hear, "I was threatened, Jack. On my way home I met a man who told me to stay away from you. Said that if I come to another session he'll hurt me and my family,"

"What?"

"If you know something Jack, you have to tell me. I won't sacrifice my family for you,"

"Then why did you come to this session?"

"I… need to know the truth. And you're gonna fucking tell me,"

"I'm not sure I like your tone, Doctor. If this is the way you're going to behave in our meetings, maybe we'd be better off not conducting them,"

Cole jumps over and seizes Jack by the collar, shaking him, "Tell me!"

"Stop acting like a caveman, Doctor,"

Before his anger can take him, Cole grabs his bag and storms away towards the door. As his hand clasps the cold metal of the door knob, Jack speaks.

"It could be them, you know,"

"Who?"

"The one's that set me up. The one's who killed my family. They could be threatening you because they know I'm innocent,"

"There is no _they_! You killed your family, Jack. They're blood on your hands, your prints on the knife, it was _you_!"

Cole opens the door.

"Doctor, we agreed on hour long sessions," Jack points out.

Cole looks over to the clock.

"And you've only been here for ten minutes. Come on, humour me,"

Cole lets out a weary sigh.

"Is everything okay, sir?" the officers outside ask.

"Fine," Cole confirms, closing the door.

He reluctantly places his bag down and takes his seat.

"There's a lot going on here you aren't aware of," Jack warns, "I'd tell you to walk away but…. Well, seems you're involved now, just like the others. You've been given a warning -too big to bring down easily I guess- not like the others,"

"The others?"

Unimpressed, Jack continues, "I see they didn't tell _you_, either. Not even their big hotshot Numero Uno,"

"What are you talking about Jack?" Cole asks impatiently.

"Your successor, Dr. James Bradford went missing. His successor, Dr. Elle Ross went crazy, her successor Quentin Forster found dead in a dumpster, are you getting the picture here?"

"Not really, Jack,"

"How about the supervisor of this case, a friend of yours, right?"

Cole knows he's referring to Ted Smithee, friend and boss.

"Surely you know he's dead now, right?" Jack says.

Cole learns forward onto his elbows and stares Jack straight in the face, "That's not possible,"

"Why?"

"Because I saw him two days ago, at the Mayor's party,"

"No you didn't Jack,"

"Yes I did,"

"No, you _didn't_,"

"Yes I… wait,"

Oh that was right. Cole had spoken to Ted on the phone, who told him he couldn't make the party.

"I spoke to him, his was ill. Couldn't make it,"

"You spoke to someone. Ill you say? With a croaky voice, I'd bet," Jack assumes.

"This is ridiculous, what's your point Crispin?"

"Everyone that gets involved with this case either dies or goes missing. I told them to stop sending people to analyse me but your board of directors simply won't listen,"

"Jack, if I'm in danger, if my family are _truly_ in danger, you have to tell me everything, I beg you,"

Crispin gets out of his chair and between the cast iron bars, stares out of the window.

"It was a hazy evening, a lot like this one,"

Cole notices as Jack's disposition changes to a low-key sobriety. No more jokes, instead, a deep focus takes over.

"It all started on the outskirts of that town…"

He turns to face Cole, "… Silent Hill,"


	6. Mystery Resort

VI – Mystery Resort 

Cole sits at the computer terminal, searching to no avail. His meeting with Jack ended nearly two hours ago and he hasn't been home yet. Truth is, it's eating him up inside. Just what is this place, this town called Silent Hill?

Jack told him lots of things. He was rambling at points and it was hard to pick out the information he needed. He said this 'syndicate' that had murdered his family were posing as gas station attendants, near a town called Brahms. They filled up his car, sent him away, only to chase him and run him off the road moments later.

"And the road sign said Silent Hill?"

Cole is back in the room now, quizzing Jack further.

"Back again, Doc? Surely the board wouldn't sanction two meetings in a day?"

"Forget the board," Cole says.

"The road sign said Silent Hill, yes. We were on a small road, we'd taken a wrong turn and that's when it happened,"

Thoughts of the threatening taxi driver force their way into Cole's mind.

"Could you recognise these people if you saw them again?"

"I doubt it. They wore masks,"

"Jack…" Cole hesitates, thinking deeply before speaking, "I've looked up this Silent Hill and… I can't find anything, anywhere,"

"What?"

"Not one map, not one mention. Nothing,"

Jack shakes his head, "That isn't possible,"

"I found Brahms, though, that other town you mentioned,"

"Yeah, it's the next town along," Jack confirms.

"I could only find one decent website. Says Brahms is a small town up state. No mention of any neighbouring towns. No mention of Silent Hill,"

"It's there," Jack insists, "I know it's there,"

"How can you be sure?"

Jack seems to sink inside himself.

"You have to tell me," Cole says, "It's important,"

"The last thing I remember about my wife…" Jack pauses, choking back the emotion, "… They held her up, tore off her clothes, smacked her about, started cutting her,"

"Go on," Cole says, urging Jack on.

"All the while, through the screaming, the torture… one of these fuckers stood there with his arm pointing towards a sign at the side of the road. They kept going, kicking, stabbing, making me watch every horrendous minute and they _kept_ pointing at that sign. Until eventually they…" Jack chokes, the tears bursting out, "… Until they took off her head and nailed it to the top of that sign. They left me to think about that for a while, tied up on the ground, not knowing if my kid was alive or dead. I couldn't move. They just wanted me to see that sign. That's why I'm sure… it was Silent Hill. Two kilometres, it said,"

Cole, suitably horrified by the former Doctor's explanation, wipes the sweat from his brow, "Anything else?"

"Everything after that is a blur," Jack replies.

"Didn't anyone from Silent Hill see you by the roadside?"

"Who knows? I told you, all these memories are so far away, it's hard to keep focus…"

"So you never went into Silent Hill, the town itself?"

"I can't say. I might've gotten free and gone into the town looking for help, I just don't know. But there is something. I remember being in Brahms, in a police cell…"

"Who apprehended you?"

"I don't know, just some kid… think his name was Jones. It's not clear. After that I woke up here, in this very building, two years ago. And that's when they pinned all these murders on me,"

Cole doesn't waste any more time in gathering his things and approaching the exit.

"Leaving, Doctor?"

"Yes. I have to check on my family,"

Jack stands up, "I didn't mean to spook you Doc. I'm just telling you how it was,"

Cole eventually nods before opening the door.

"Doc,"

Cole turns to face his patent, "Yeah?"

"Whatever's there, in Silent Hill, these people didn't want me to find it,"

Cole slams the door shut firmly, exhausted by the evenings endeavours. Nearly over soon, just one more thing left. Cole takes out his cell phone.

"Get me Detective Finn Jones,"


	7. Information

VII – Information 

From the icebox, Finn Jones removes a well deserved beer. Screwing off the cap, he stares at liquid inside like it's some kind of amber nectar. As he places the bottle to his lips, he is horrified to hear the annoying high pitched buzz of his cell phone. He slams the bottle down on the counter and places the mobile to his ear,

"What the hell do you want?" he demands aggressively.

"Uh, hello?" a voice unknown says, "Is this Detective Jones?"

"Yeah that's me, who is this?"

"Doctor Cole, we met last night,"

"Christ. Do you know what time it is Doctor?"

"I thought you'd be the best person to talk to,"

"Then you can come and see me at the precinct tomorrow morning,"

"Wait, just give me five minutes," Cole urges, "Please, it's important. Before you came to my house last night, I heard someone talking about you,"

"What about me?"

"You were the man who caught Jack Crispin, weren't you?"

Jones stares at the open bottle. It'd been so long since he'd had one he couldn't even remember how a beer tasted. But hey, he was a cop. Good cops don't drink on duty.

"You got three minutes,"

"What if it were possible that Crispin didn't kill his family, or that Cop in the city?"

"Doctor, what the hell are you saying?"

"Detective, it's my job to know how to read people. I spoke to him today and he told me something… he just couldn't have been lying,"

"Look, whatever he told you, it doesn't matter, he's a homicidal maniac. He killed his own family for God's sake. Perhaps you'd explain Doctor, why the hell I'm telling you how to do your job?"

"It's funny what you'll believe when you've scared, Detective. Perhaps this'd make more sense if you tracked down the man who threatened me in the back of that taxi last night? And perhaps after you've done that you could explain why the hell I'm telling _you_ how to do _your_ job? What Crispin says may not be true, but these threats _are_ and there has to be a reason for it,"

"Then what do you propose Doctor? That I haul in even Taxi driver in the city?"

"Silent Hill,"

Jones listens to the stillness of the phone line for a few moments, "Silent what?"

Cole explains all that Jack told him that evening, every detail he could accurately recall.

"This just isn't possible Doctor,", "Why not?"

"He claims he was apprehended in this Brahms place?"

"Yeah, by a young cop named Jones. That was you right?"

"I caught the bastard, sure. But I can assure you, I ain't never been, or even heard of a place called Brahms,"

"Are you certain?" Cole asks.

"That's what I said, Doctor,"

"This… doesn't piece together at all,"

"Yeah, that's 'cause it's just some story made up by a head case. Listen Doctor, if you want us to increase the security around your home that's fine, but I ain't the person to talk to. I'm gonna give you the number of the security department and you can…"

Cole abruptly cuts him off, "I just need you to look up this town called Silent Hill. It's your job to help, right?"

Jones chuckles at the Doctor's assessment, "The Jack Crispin case is closed, and any information connected to it is irrelevant to my job,"

"I have to find this town,"

"Then go find it Doctor, nothing's stopping you,"

The line goes dead.

"Guess I pissed him off," Jones mutters to himself.

5.00am. He rolls over and checks the clock again to confirm what his brain is registering. He hasn't slept at all, not one wink. Just been lying here and thinking about the case. The Ellison Lee murder carried all the hallmarks of a Jack Crispin. Then this Doctor pops up with this crazy story about Crispin being innocent. Is the real killer still out there? Is there a copycat on the loose? Is this all just crazy, insane babble dreamed up by a psycho?

And why can't he force that name out of his head? Why is it keeping him awake until five in the morning?

What the hell is Silent Hill?

It's no good, he decides. Sleep won't come now. Carter's words repeat in his head, 'People like us, we don't get any breaks. Our work is our life.'

"Old bastard was right,"

Jones pulls himself out of bed and throws on yesterday's unwashed shirt and jacket. His trousers were creased the last time he was wearing them, they're twice as creased now.

He makes himself a single piece of white toast, skipping the butter, and leaves his apartment whilst eating it.

Downstairs in the lobby, no one's around except the Superintendent. He's asleep on the counter, a sign saying "welcome to South Ashfield Apartments, please ring for service!" sitting next to him.

It's only a short drive to the precinct, and at this time of the morning he even manages to secure a parking spot. It's another muggy morning, yet the snow isn't melting.

The precinct is still and quiet, but not empty. A few of the more committed cops are here, busily doing their jobs, hours before others are even awake. The patrolman gives Finn a polite nod but no one else stops to acknowledge him. That's fine, they'd probably just kick up a big fuss about him being here early.

Not only had he never seen the precinct at early morning, he'd also never seen the basement area. Taking the keys from the shelf, he made for the lift.

"Where you going son?" the Patrolman enquired.

"I need to see the old records," Jones replied, "You still keep them in the basement, right?"

"The paper ones, yeah, but no one looks at them anymore,"

"Well, I'm not even sure _why_ I'm looking but… what I need can't be found with a computer. I gotta see those records,"

"Very well, Detective," the Patrolman says, "Take the stairs. The lift doesn't go down there anymore,"

Nodding politely, Jones takes his leave.

"Uh, may I ask what you're looking for Detective?"

"Nothing much," Jones replies, "Just some info on a town upstate, uh… Silent Hill,"

Jones notices a shift in emotions on the old patrolman's face, who now seems suspicious of the young Detective.

"Something wrong?" Jones asks.

"No, it's just…" he stops to consider, "No, never mind,"

"Hey, if you know something…"

"It's just… There was this guy I knew on the force, twenty, twenty-five years ago by the name of Peters," the patrolman shifts his gaze around the room, "Can we… go somewhere more private?"

Finn Jones enters his office and closes the door behind the patrolman.

"So what's the deal?"

"Okay," the patrolman says. Jones can detect an old pain rising to the surface as the old guy continues, "Peters was my friend. He went missing in Silent Hill,"

"Go on,"

"You see, even though he couldn't remember the place, he was born up that way. His parents moved out here when he was a boy. He was always interested in keeping tabs on it, y'know, reading old history files, looking at maps, stuff like that," he continues, his face darkening with every word, "One day we were at the bar drinking, and he asks me to go up to Silent Hill with him, about a half days drive. Says he just wants to check out what's left of the place,"

"And you said?"

"Hell no!" he snaps, "It's a ghost town, dead as a doornail,"

"What happened there?"

"All kinds of bad shit, Detective; people disappearing, ships sinking without explanation. Peters became obsessed with the place. Started babbling some mumbo jumbo about a cult, and how he was gonna get to the bottom of it,"

"How was given time to work on this case?"

"Peters was pushing sixty, retirement was coming. They kept him on the payroll 'cause he was well known in the area, back from his days walking the beat, an old fashioned community cop, I guess. They let him carry out his investigations into Silent Hill to keep him busy, and as they _thought_, keep him outta trouble"

Letting out a pained sigh, he continues, "I guess it was… must have been thirty years ago now. There was a fire, large parts of the town went up in flames. After that, the place just seemed to drop off the map entirely…" he hesitates, "…and I never heard from Peters again,"

"Didn't anyone go looking for him?"

"Of course they did but like I said, it's abandoned. There's nothing except a pile of ashes. That's pretty much all I know,"

Satisfied the patrolman has said enough, Jones rises from his seat and approaches the door.

"I gotta ask you Detective," the patrolman says, "Why the fascination with Silent Hill?"

"Christ knows why but the name came up on a case. I just want to know more, that's all,"


	8. Files

VIII – Files 

The metal grating slides open uneasily to reveal a decrepit basement door, its surface ravaged by woodworm and the passing of time. The once proud logo of the Old District PD has now faded, and the door handle hangs off, just about ready to snap altogether on touch.

Jones gently inserts the key into the hole, fearing he might break the rusted thing with too heavy a hand. As he turns, the lock cracks into place and the door creaks open. A foul musk emanates from the darkness inside, likely the smell of damp, archaic papers. This door hasn't been opened in decades.

Fortunately, the lights still work, swinging roof lamps with rusted metal cones, unused in this building since God knows when. They say this was the original South Ashfield Precinct, built nearly a hundred years ago, all underground. Above it was a section of Ashfield Park, before they built the new Precinct. Further back, in the 20's, there was a restaurant above, which at night became a speakeasy for the local cops. Jones could easily believe that the law would stash their own alcohol down here, in all the various nooks and crannies.

After descending a small flight of steps and passing through a short corridor, Jones finds himself in front of the main archives. Rows and rows of files, papers, books, reports, all of it untouched in years. Fortunately, it's alphabetically coded, and Jones is able to find the 'S' section with relative ease; Now, the hard part.

After a good hour of searching, the row stretching back a few hundred paces, file after file, Jones holds in his hand a musty old set of documents, fastened together with a decaying piece of string. The writing is badly faded on the front cover, but Jones can still make out the title of the file: Silent Hill, and the supervising officer: Derek Peters. As the patrolman had said, Peters was the only officer involved on the case.

Back in his office, where there was sufficient light, he sat down and digested the information. After a few minutes of reading, he could already tell that there was something terribly _wrong_ with this town, a history of problems.

Sixteenth century rituals and witch-hunts were common folklore for small towns in the wilderness; epidemics in the seventeenth century, though unexplained, were a fairly common thing, before the introduction of advanced medicine. None of these things concerned Jones but mentions of recent disappearances, deaths, Ships vanishing: all these strange occurrences happening within the last hundred years, this is what the young detective finds strange.

He flicks through a few more pages, detailing the town's significance as a tourist resort in the sixties and seventies. The next few verify the area's rapid decline in tourist related income, after all the boat related deaths at Toluca Lake, the town's main point of interest.

What he set his eyes upon now really interests him. It wasn't a newspaper clipping or a company produced pamphlet, these were the notes of Officer Peters himself, these were what Jones was looking for.

The documents didn't seem as decrepit as the others in the file and the information was easier to read. To Finn's surprise, the bulk of the notes seemed to talk about a little girl by the name of Alessa Gillespie. The notes presented some unusual information:

'Alessa had unique abilities since a very young age. At school, they would taunt her by calling her a witch and exclude her from friendship groups amongst other things. It was hard to come by this information, but many sources spoke of Alessa's fear of her mother, Dahlia Gillespie, who attempted to exploit Alessa's power for her own ends,'

"Power?" Jones mutters to himself.

A small envelope drops out of the file, still sealed. Jones picks it up and runs his eye over it. It's addressed to the precinct, and stamped with a Silent Hill postal mark. Assumedly, it was crammed inside the file and never opened.

There's a letter inside, just a single piece of paper. It's the same handwriting used in the file documents.

'To anyone who might read this, I implore you to consider my words carefully. For the past few years, I have been investigating the mysteries of a small town known as Silent Hill, my true birthplace. You might know it as a tourist resort, as I have come to understand it was a fairly popular resort not too long ago. These days it's just a small mining community, desperately wanting what it once had.

But that's not all Silent Hill is. There is an undercurrent of despair, a history of destruction and mayhem that has blighted all who have lived here.

I have come to learn that there are things in this world we cannot comprehend, evils that we cannot understand. A fire has torn this place apart and ever since the night of the blaze, I haven't been able to leave the town. The roads have collapsed in on themselves, phones and electronic equipment have stopped working. I don't even know why I'm writing this letter, because with the roads out, I know there's no way it can be delivered. Blind hope has taken me this far but now, my belief in escape has begin to wane.

There are creatures here unknown to me, twisted apparitions that could only be conjured in nightmares. They stalk the streets and hunt me down. I don't know how much longer I can last.

If by some miracle this letter reaches someone, I urge you, I beg of you- Never come to Silent Hill. There are spirits here, violent demons from a forgotten world, Gods who long to be reborn. You will find not find me in this town, nor should you try.

For this place exists both inside our world, and outside it…'

"What in high holy hell?" Jones says, leaning back in his seat.

Demons, ancient Gods? What was all this mumbo jumbo? The patrolman said Peters was getting on in years, perhaps this was some kind of senile dementia? That still doesn't explain all the evidence gathered in the file. There was definitely an unstable history with this town and by the Officer's description, it was a very dangerous place to be.

"Shit!" Jones shouts, jumping forward to grab his phone.

He frantically dials a number, ranting obscenities as he waits for an answer.

"Yes?" a female voice responds.

"Mrs. Cole?" Jones asks.

"That's right, are you aware what time it is?"

"This is Detective Finn Jones, I talked to your husband the night he received threats,"

"Yes, I remember you Detective. What's this regarding?"

"I need to speak with Dr. Cole,"

"I think he's here, one moment,"

Jones waits anxiously for the Doctors wife to return to the line.

"Is this some kind of joke?" she asks.

"Pardon me, ma'am?"

"He wasn't supposed to leave the house without supervision, that's what he told me!" her voice is wrought with panic.

"Mrs. Cole, I need to know where your husband has gone,"

"He wasn't in bed when I woke up… and I've just found a note. Something about a business trip,"

"Jesus. Does he carry a cell phone?"

"It's right here on the desk. Is my husband in trouble, Detective?"

"Don't worry, I think I know where he's headed,"

… Silent Hill

"Then tell me," the lady demands.

"Don't worry ma'am, I'll have him back soon. Thank you for your co-operation,"

"But…"

Without letting her finish, Finn Jones slams the phone down and heads towards the exit of the precinct. On this way out of the grand double doors, the patrolman calls, "Did you find what you needed, Detective?"

Looking down at the aging file in his hands, Jones grunts in reply.

He had seen evil, but Demons and Gods were beyond Jones' suspension of belief. Regardless, if Peters' description of the town itself was accurate, then Dr. Cole would be in grave danger exploring the area. He climbs inside his **Chevy**.Chevelle**Chevy**.Chevelle**Chevy**.Chevelle**Chevy**.Chevelle**Chevy**.Chevelle**Chevy**.Chevelle**Chevy**.Chevelle**Chevy**.Chevelle**Chevy**.ChevelleChevy Chevelle and the engine grunts into life as he turns the key. He was breaking orders, running off without informing his partner, or the chief, but he knew he had to find Cole immediately.

Onwards, to Silent Hill.


	9. Interference

XI – Interference 

Jones looks down at his watch as he speeds along the freeway. He'd been driving for hours on end, and Silent Hill was getting ever closer. A strange sensation passes over him as he stares at the mountains in the distance, knowing full well that the town lies just beyond them. His mobile phone begins to ring.

"Jones," he says, identifying himself.

"Where the hell are you?" Carter shouts,

"Bradley Allen Cole has gone missing," Jones replies.

"He's not the only one,"

"What are you talking about?"

"It's Crispin, he's escaped from the institution,"

Now the shit had really hit the fan.

"How did he pull that?" Jones questions, bewildered by the news.

"No broken locks, no sign of force… and no-one saw a thing. Just woke up this morning and his cell door was wide open, minus the patient,"

"Someone let him out?"

"It's possible. Just where the hell are you Jones? We need you here,"

"I told you, Doctor Cole has gone missing. He might be in danger,"

"Did you not hear me, kid? Crispin has _escaped_, the whole of Ashfield is in _danger_,"

A volley of phone static causes Jones to recoil from the phone.

"Carter, repeat,"

A few words can be made out amongst the interference, "Something… cell wall…. Carved…. Silent … H…."

The signal goes dead.

"Hello?" Jones calls, "Carter?"

There's no sound now except the slight crackle of static and an electronic popping noise. The phone's screen flickers violently and the keys won't respond.

"Great," Jones sighs, slinging the device onto the back seat.

A strange, thick mist seems to linger over the area. He nearly misses it, but in the corner of his eye Jones spots a small road sign as it whizzes past the moving car: Silent Hill, two kilometres.

Satisfied he's found his destination, Jones folds up the old map he'd taken from the file and tucks it away in the glove box.

All of a sudden, a sharp spike of static emanates from the radio and Jones shoots into awareness. Directly in front of him, amongst the mist, a figure stands motionless. At this speed, it's too late to stop. Quickly slamming both hands on the wheel, Jones turns sharply to the left. The old Chevy buckles under the fast manoeuvre, spinning out of control. Jones tries to ease off then reapply the break pedal but it doesn't seem to respond. The steering goes loose, leaving the Detective completely helpless. With one last desperate attempt to halt the vehicle, he applies the handbrake, but the lever appears to wrestle his efforts. In midst of panic, Jones spots the figure again, but can't make out any kind of features, his head beginning to spin along with the car. His vision begins to blur, as he curls himself into a ball, awaiting impact. A loud crash turns into a dull, tinny sound in his ears, and his eyes won't open. Coherent thought morphs into dream like stupor before all fades to black.


	10. Silent Hill

X – Silent Hill 

Amongst the grey shades of the road at his feet and the mist that enshrouds him, the tall olive green billboard sticks out in the sky like a guiding light. Even at this distance, it's easy to pick out the powerful gold lettering. 'Welcome to Silent Hill'.

He hadn't taken a wrong turn.

Cole looks back the way he'd came to see nothing but a thick blanket of fog, swirling white, too bright to stare at for long. The car had broken down a few hundred yards behind him. In front, the mist seems to be slightly clearer, and the great metal legs supporting the sign board came into view. The road stretches on further in a straight line and he begins to follow it. At the roads edge, there is a drop of unknown height, the tips of narrow pine trees barely visible.

On various stops for gas and food, he'd asked about this place, and to his chagrin, not heard many positive tales. Most people hadn't even heard of Silent Hill, and those who had described it as a ghost town, completely devoid of population.

To his surprise, the air seems to grow warmer, almost to the point where he's starting to grow uncomfortable. As it was in Ashfield, snow is falling here but these flakes seem, for lack of a better word, chalky. How could it snow in this heat? The air is close and the temperature seems to rise further with every step he takes. He squats down and runs his fingers through the still, white sheen on the floor.

...Ash?

It's at this point, Cole's logical thinking kicks into gear. _Why_ is he here? Why had he listened to the ramblings of a lunatic, and against police orders, left his family behind and driven half a day to a dead town in the middle of nowhere? Though it fascinates him, he knew deep down there could be no truth in Jack's crazy story. But there was something else that brought him to this town. He isn't a policeman, but he often follows his instincts, and right now, something is calling him from within Silent Hill, drawing him in. He fingers the breast pocket of his overcoat and feels the cold metal shape press against his shirt. He's never fired one before, so hopefully the gun was merely a precaution.

He loosens his tie and tucks it away into his other pocket.

A few stifled noises can be heard off in the distance, which Cole can only suppose is metal scraping on metal. Assuming this sound is originating from the town ahead, he picks up his speed, kicking away the chalky dust that lies at his feet.

Although it can still be heard, the curious noise doesn't seem to grow closer, even after five minutes of walking. Cole begins to grow baffled by these odd surroundings. He decides to call out, hoping someone will reply but no one meets his hailing. There's no sound except the clacking of his expensive foreign shoes on the tarmac below and the slight drone of the wind. His voice doesn't even appear to have an echo in this area, heightening the sensation of oddity.

A few more minutes down the road and a giant tunnel looms over him, the entrance of which is barricaded with a rusty chain-link fence. A warm breeze passes through, and for a moment, Cole can smell burning. He looks around, but nothing can be seen through multiple layers of swirling haze.

Cole hears something else, a dog panting maybe, the patter of paws on tarmac. Nothing moves within the mist. He removes his glasses and wipes the fatigue away from his eyes.

"I need coffee," he mumbles to himself.

Placing his glasses back on, he is baffled to see the mist has cleared significantly to the west, and what's stranger, it has done so in a matter of seconds. He gazes out across the valley, rows and rows of pine trees stretching all the way down to a huge body of water, a thin layer of fog dancing over the surface.

"Magnificent," he mutters, completely absorbed.

There's an old telescope, presumably used by sight-seeing tourists once upon a time. Cole places his hand on it, curdled paint peeling off and floating to the ground. He slides a quarter into the slot and peers into the eyeholes.

There isn't a great deal to see at high magnification, not through these pervasive mists. Way off on the other side of the lake, Cole can make out a giant Ferris wheel. There's also, a large Victorian mansion, possibly a hotel. He leads the scope along the coastline but the mist is deeper here and little else can be seen. As he begins to lean away from the device, something catches his attention. He narrows his eyes, attempting to focus on the disturbance. Something thrashes about in the water, trying desperately to stay afloat. Though only glimpsing it for a mere moment, Cole determines the figure is humanoid and draws his conclusions before the mist engulfs the view entirely.

There were still people in this town, and one of them needed help.

A rough path presents itself at Cole's feet. He eyes it, roughly trickling down the hill into the unknown. Hesitating slightly, he begins to traverse the stony ground, struggling to keep his footing on the steep gradient. The mist comes on strong again, and all he can do is focus on his feet, skipping down step by step, trying not to crash into the thick tree trunks all around him.

His right foot gives way, and he crashes onto his side, sliding down the slope with gathered momentum. Hundreds of trees skip by, dazzling him as he flies passed helplessly. He wants to be sick but the sheer momentum of his travel prevents such action. Spying flat land, he braces for impact.

A few moments of stillness pass before he lets out a pained grunt. He fingers his old ribs, grimacing through discomfort. Cole decides it's nothing major and gingerly climbs to his feet.

The top of the hill is a distant memory, swallowed up by the all consuming fog. The sound of lightly trickling liquid can be heard very close by. Cole notices a small tributary, darting off into the mist. He follows the thin streak of water, as the ground beneath him slowly changes from rocky to granular matter. Emerging from beneath the cover of trees, Cole stands on a narrow spit of sand, stretching across the coastline in both directions.

"Can anybody hear me?" he calls, hoping the struggling person has enough strength to reply.

Cole trudges forwards towards the sea, where the current sits lifelessly still. There is no sign of struggle. He wipes the condensation from his lenses and stares hard across the ocean. Through a gap in the mist, he spots something – or someone – afloat in the water. Is it too late?

Old memories force their way into his head. His foot hovers agonisingly, fighting hard to push it down. He slowly lowers it into the sludgy sand, and winces as if the water were acid. Old memories, no time for that now!

He urges himself onwards, until he's close enough to confirm the figure in the water is human. He steels himself, fighting his fears, hoping this time he can save a life, instead of one slipping away from him like all those years ago. With an outstretched arm, he pulls the lifeless form towards him and twists it over onto its front.

He wretches as he looks upon the face of the man, rotten and long dead. There are no eyes to speak of, only holes where they should sit. The flesh of the face is all but gone, only a thin layer of shrivelled organic slime remains. Depressed craters where cheeks should be lead into a toothless, decaying mouth. This body must've been in the water for some time.

Cole composes himself and examines further. The corpse is wearing a navy blue uniform, with the words 'The Little Baroness' embroidered above the breast pocket.

A noise. Surely he heard right, a disturbance in the water. Something whips passed his leg and he jumps slightly. Trying to locate the problem proves fruitless, as the murky water has grown dark this far out.

"Just a fish," Cole assures himself.

He turns his attention back to the floating corpse. Whoever this poor soul was, it can't be the person he saw through the telescope. Someone still needed his help.

His train of thought is abruptly interrupted by a deep, terrifying wail. The sound is almost deafening and it seems to come at Cole from all angles, making the source impossible to pinpoint. It sounds, to the best of Cole's knowledge, like an air raid siren, perhaps some sort of fire warning system? It grows louder and Cole trembles, feeling as if he's about to come under attack. The mist whips and swirls around him as unknown creatures bash against his ankles. He tries to spot them, but the water is now black like oil and the sky rapidly begins to bruise. Before long, total darkness swallows his sight and all that's left is that fearful siren, blasting relentlessly through his head. He covers his ears, fearing his brain might explode from the sheer volume of the noise. And then, almost as abruptly as it started, the siren fades from existence and Cole is left standing in total darkness, the cold sensation of liquid at his waist the only indication he's still conscious. There is no sound.

He's alive. He knows that much. For a time, maybe a minute or two, he stands as stiff as a board, listening to the sound of his own, erratic breathing. There is something else here now. Cole takes a sharp intake of oxygen and holds it in, keeps quiet. There is _definitely_ something else with him now.

Whatever creature stands at his back is breathing. Cole is not alone. Finally pushing himself into action, he reaches into his front pocket and removes his lighter. Fortunately it was in his breast pocket and hasn't gotten wet. Frantically fingering the device, he presses the piezoelectric ignition button and it clicks into place, flame dancing out of the nozzle, illuminating a limited section of the surrounding area.

This provides Cole with little insight, other than the heartening knowledge that _he_ is still completely intact, devoid of any injuries. He's still standing in water, that's confirmed. Nothing else can be seen in any direction. The ominous, uneven breathing is still present.

Cole allows himself to calm down and think rationally. Could this be some kind of eclipse? Sudden and unpredicted, surely that seems highly unlikely but what else could it be?

"Hello?" Cole stammers, hoping for an intelligent reply.

He nearly jumps out of his skin as something collides with his lower back. He spins around quickly, identifying the unknown object as the corpse he'd just been examining.

Cole notices something, "I could've sworn…"

His mind must be playing tricks on him. While still lifeless, the corpse appears to have changed slightly. Though the skin is still decayed, the face seems fuller than it did before, the decaying holes that were present now sealed.

The sound of a static crackle alerts him. The source of the noise is a curious old pocket radio which, somewhat inexplicably, sits on the chest of the corpse. It begins to slip from the body, so Cole reaches out and grabs it before it falls in the water.

"This wasn't here before…?" Cole muses.

There doesn't appear to be a volume dial, so Cole places the device close to his ear, straining to make some sense of the sound it emits. In the foreground plays an erratic 'popping' sound, and in the back, a mess of multiple frequencies, nothing more than white noise.

As he is nigh on giving up, Cole thinks he hears something more specific from the radio, almost like a low pitched groan. He shakes the device to make sure it's working correctly before placing it back towards his ear. He is forced to recoil as the radio emits a high pitched squeal, almost pained in nature.

The frequency warps and distorts into a mishmash of bleats and whines, intimidating Cole deeply. The moan sounds out again but it's not coming from the radio. Something's there, over his left shoulder, he can feel it. It's watching him. Slowly he turns his body, extending the lighter in front of him.

Cole counts three figures, humanoid in shape. His eyes show him an entity wrapped inside a putrid sack of flesh, its skin seemingly crawling across its body with every little movement. Moans from behind him reveal more of these creatures, closing in on him step by step.

There are no eyes, nose or mouth, no features to indicate any sort of face, merely an uneven lump of fat which Cole presumes to be the creature's head. Some of them wear The Little Baroness uniforms, hanging loosely from their charred bodies. One of the monstrosities tries to reach out at Cole, but its arms are trapped inside, an organic straight-jacket that imprisons it within its own fluids. They moan in unison, and the sound is altogether terrifying, both human and demonic at the same time.

As if it had bitten the inside of its own face, a rough hole opens up where a mouth should be, followed by a stream of black blood. The smell is nauseating, but Cole is frozen and does not recoil. With a horrifying regurgitating gargle, the creature expels a viscous projectile liquid, caking the Doctor's arm with white hot fire. He finally snaps into life, grasping the afflicted area. This only serves to burn his hand, fusing fabric with skin, the unknown liquid seemingly some form of acid. The deep curdling sound of vomit rises again, this time louder, as more of the creatures prepare for attack. As the slow throaty groan shakes through him, Cole watches the gap widen on the creature's face. Moving fast, he throws himself beneath the surface.

His arm shoots back to life as the water eases the acidic burning. In the pitch darkness, he thrashes his arms, grabbing onto metal grating where wet sand once was. He pulls himself self along, and using his rough internal compass, manages to scramble onto the beach. The sand, to his horror, has been replaced by a smouldering mass of soft flesh, sticking to his feet and ankles. He trudges through the human mess, the suffering groans surrounding him.

Hundreds of armless creatures swarm out of the darkness and though terrified to the core, Cole does not stop. The burning fires illuminate an opening dead ahead. He darts forward, barging one of the creatures to the ground. It wriggles about helplessly, desperately striving to stand. It tries to flip onto its stomach and crawl away but the sticky flesh of its body starts to amalgamate with the smouldering fat on the ground. For a moment, looking upon the creature, Cole feels an enormous swell off pity, watching it thrash about fruitlessly in the mess, crying out a frighteningly human scream. He doesn't commit too much time to this feeling, pressing on towards the tunnel ahead.

Panic turns to delirium as he realises he no longer has his lighter to guide the way. With no other choice, he plunges himself into the darkness of the tunnel and soon enough, his footing is taken from him and he's falling, seemingly forever, until the crashing of body against stone. His eyes begin to lose focus, the last thing he sees, a tourist information board nailed to a fleshy wall. Blood trickles down the Perspex fascia, but the words remain clear…

Welcome to Silent Hill.


	11. Guardians

XI – Guardians 

Jones fingers the strip of adhesive plaster on his head, the wound beneath serving as a painful reminder he'd crashed his Chevy on the outskirts of town. He was lucky enough to find this medical centre, where he was able to adequately patch himself up.

The clinic consists of a main lobby and three examining rooms. After investigating, Jones determines that there is not a soul in sight, neither here, or anywhere else for that matter; a ghost town.

The notes he had read in the file began to puzzle him further. With all the roads out, Peters had claimed he was trapped in the area. But Jones had no problem locating this place, and he hadn't seen any collapsed roads.

He finds a map and places in it his pocket, along with the other useful notes he'd stripped from Officer Peters' file.

Outside, the air is muggy and the persistent mist continues to linger. What next, run around town shouting out Dr. Cole's name? Jones wasn't even one-hundred percent sure the psychiatrist had come here and he'd never be able to spot him in this terrible visibility.

Jones examines the immediate area and notices an old fashioned speaker system pinned to the outer wall of the clinic. It reminded him of his childhood, of summer camp, the speakers blurting out the tooting of a bugle at six in the morning.

"Wait a minute…" he says, perking up.

He notices a chord that runs from the speakers, connecting to a power outlet on the wall. From this, a wire extends, shooting away into the mist.

"It's a warning system,"

If he could find the control room, he might be able to use the speakers to hail Dr. Cole.

"Another wanderer," a voice whispers.

Jones' head darts sharply to the right and he spots someone sitting on a roadside bench.

"Identify yourself!" he demands.

She studies him with murky brown eyes. Across her dried, cracked lips, a wry smile appears. What could once have been the face of an attractive young lady was now haggard and worn, not through age but through malnourishment. With almost ghostly movements, she rises from the bench and stands up straight.

Even beneath the grey robes, Jones can tell she is far too thin to be healthy, with barely a scrap of fat on her. Narrow cheek bones perk up as she begins to laugh. Her hair, mousey brown, though greying in some places, is wrapped tightly within a purple headscarf. Lockets and crests hang from her neck via chains, carved with symbols Jones can't identify.

"Submit yourselves therefore to God. Resist the devil, and he will flee from you,"

"Answer my question!" Jones demands forcefully, "Who are you?"

"How rude of me," she replies, "It's been so long, I had forgotten the necessity of introductions. You may call me Myshella,"  
Satisfied, Jones nods, moving his hand away from his holster.

"Finn Jones, I'm a…"

She cuts him off quickly, "I know who you are,"

Unsettled, Jones demands an explanation.

"Well it's simple. _He_ told me,"  
"I'm looking for a missing person," Jones explains, "Male, late 50's, grey hair and beard,"  
"Another lamb separated from the flock?"

"_Who are you?" _Jones repeats, this time with more urgency.

"I already told you, Myshella is my name,"

"What are you doing here, how do you know me?"

"So impatient! With an attitude like that, life must have been tough on you. Exactly the type he craves most,"

"Okay, whatever," Jones says, "I'm taking you to Brahms. You shouldn't be hanging around in this town by yourself,"

"You can't leave," she sighs, "Not until he's dealt with you,"

"Don't make me use the cuffs,"

A crashing sound is heard down a nearby alleyway. Jones turns his head to meet the noise but sees nothing but white haze. Returning his attention to…

"Hey!"

The mysterious lady called Myshella has disappeared.

"What the hell was that all about?" he mutters to himself.

Again, a crash springs from the alleyway, a dust bin being knocked over perhaps.

"Is somebody there?" he calls.

His lack of control over the situation bothers him. The Doctor was missing in the town and now this woman too? And what a strange one she was. How did she know his name? Who was this 'he' she kept referring too? The questions were beginning to stack up. What would Carter say if he were here?

'The difference between a good cop and a rookie is attitude, having the desire to find the answers.'

Myshella had disappeared, and sifting through this fog would lead him on a wild goose chase.

He decides to check out the alleyway. The crashing sound was probably caused by a stray cat, maybe a hungry fox knocking over a bin, searching for food. However, with little else to go on, his police training tells him he should confirm the source of the disturbance, but _why_ that cold feeling in his gut? His gun hand twitches. He's ready to use it if necessary.

"It's abandoned," he assures himself, "What's here to shoot?"

To Jones' concern, the alleyway reeks of rotting meat. Flies can be heard buzzing, but not seen. As he takes step after step into the narrow suburban corridor, the wind seems to fall still, leaving him with naught but the sound of his footsteps and breathing to accompany him. Suddenly, a new sound comes into fruition, a squeaking of some sort, like a bike chain in need of an oiling. He approaches the source of the sound with caution, apprehension tightening the muscles in his chest.

The garage door is spattered with blood and gore. Beneath it, there lies a wheelchair on its side, the free wheel spinning at pace.

"What the hell?"

Studying closer, Jones notices the seat is soaked with a warm liquid, probably urine. It was almost as if someone had been sitting in this wheelchair, and had come crashing into the garage door. There is a small puppet lying next to the chair. A stuffed duck, maybe?

"Hello?" Finn calls, concerned someone might be hurt.

He almost thinks he hears someone reply, but after calling once more, all stays quiet.

He feels a brief wind caress the back of his overcoat. Over his right shoulder, he sees a small animal, presumably a dog, disappear into the mist.

"Hey," he calls.

After glancing at the bloody garage once more, his brain throwing up all kinds of explanations, he gets to his feet and presses on down the alleyway.

"Here pooch,"

The pattering of paws can be heard maybe thirty yards in front of him, and he's forced to pick up the pace to keep up with the animal. After chasing the sound for the best part of a minute, it finally stops and Finn can see the animal's tail and back, its front half obscured behind a brick wall. It looks like an Alsatian, perhaps a guard dog. Finn considers that it could be dangerous, but as it didn't attack him a moment ago, he deems it safe to approach.

He moves around the brick wall to see the dog is lying down. The Detective squats down and prods its back with his index finger. It's not moving, not even stirring. Something smells really, really bad.

He shuffles forward until he's close enough to see the dog's face in detail. He recoils, jolting back and hitting his elbow off the concrete pavement. A jolt runs through his arm and into his body but he ignores the pain, transfixed on what's in front of him.

Safe to say the canine is dead, half its face seemingly missing. Jones grits his teeth before taking another look. It seems to have been attacked by a blunt weapon, its face crushed inwards more than anything else. Its eye, dead or not, is fixated on him.

"Jesus," he mutters. Who could have done this?

Jones begins to feel a deep sickness. Spit thickens and neck muscles tighten, so he turns away from the unfortunate animal. Forcing himself to his feet, the smell too much to take, he eyes the alleyway's dead-end. With nothing he can do to help the poor animal and no further direction to progress, he decides to return from whence he came. As he passes by the blood smattered garage, the wheelchair no longer squeaking, he hears a tapping sound behind him.

The dog, at the head of a trail of blood, twitches violently on its side, what's left of its tongue flapping out of its mouth and the claws on its paws ratting against the concrete. It moves to look at Jones, registering that he's there. He can see the fear it its eyes – its one good eye - as it yelps uncontrollably, desperate for his help. He's forced to turn away and cover his mouth, holding back the urge to vomit.

After a few moments, he steels himself and turns to see that the dog is on its feet and has limped closer to him, still twitching, the tip of its nose tapping against the ground. He reaches into his coat and fingers the ring hammer on his pistol, knowing what he has to do.

A bullet though the brain puts the suffering canine down for good. Jones feels a great a great swell of compassion for the poor creature as its eye goes dead. It leaves a bitter taste in his mouth as he turns away.

He's only able to take a few steps before yet another sound alerts him. He turns quickly to see a little boy sobbing on his knees, hunched over the dead animal. It must have been his pet, Jones assumes.

"Hey, what's your name?" he asks sympathetically.

No reply.

"Is this…" he hesitates, "I'm sorry, kid. I'll uh…"

For a moment he considers offering the boy a _new dog_, before deciding to re-plan his tact.

"Where are your parents? I'll explain to them what happened,"

Still the boy does not reply, simply rocking back and forth, completely distraught.

Jones moves closer to the child's back. Squatting down, he places his hand on the boys shoulder, offering his condolences. His CB Radio begins to whine a high pitched frequency, so he switches it off to avoid frightening the child.

"What are you doing here all alone? Are your folks nearby?"

The boy looks up at the Detective, the young eyes projecting his melancholy. Suddenly, he wipes the tears away and begins to laugh. Pointing his finger at Jones, the child is laughing hysterically.

"Nah nah nah nah naaaah!" he repeats over and over.

"Hey kid, calm down!" Jones exclaims, grabbing both of the boys' shoulders.

He continues to chortle uncontrollably, so Jones shakes the child, trying to break him out of his fit. His head drops, and the laughing soon goes quiet. For a few agonising moments, nothing happens. Eventually, the child looks on behind Jones shoulder, and points again. The Detective turns his head.

On the garage roof stands another child but no… this isn't right. Its head is humungous in comparison to the rest of its body, and its limbs are bent and distorted, the right leg far longer than the opposite. With a sickeningly high pitch, it begins to cry and wail uncontrollably. The sound seems to barrage Jones from all angles. He feels cold touch on his left hand and as he turns his attention back to the boy in his arms, he is greeted by a new face, twisted beyond previous recognition, mutated and wrought with pain. Two elongated, tendril-like arms reach for Jones' throat, so he darts out of the way, rolling onto his feet.

He draws his gun out of instinct, but holds back on the trigger finger. Emotions begin to conflict within him. Is this really a child, should he shoot? Confusion turns to panic as he stares in disbelief at the creature unevenly trudging towards him. As his hands grow numb, the gun he holds becomes a cold lump, completely useless to him. His training hasn't prepared him for this, whatever _this_ is.

What once was a boy, now a frightening mess of charred skin and malformed shapes, steps ever closer, reaching out its arms in need. Its skin smoulders and melts, dripping down and morphing into black gunk on the pavement below. The high pitched wail pierces his ears, gnawing him to the core.

A sharp pain bites through his skull. He spins around, and through sheer reaction speed, catches some form of projectile in his left hand. He opens his palm to see a small rodent, its head missing, torn off. He discards it in disgust, before being struck on the forearm. He looks up to see more of the demonic 'children', armed with various objects which they fling at Jones without hesitation. To the best of his ability, he avoids the storm of stones, twigs and, to his dismay, chunks of meat and flesh.

He darts out of the alleyway, leaving the chaos behind, not stopping until all sounds of pain and torture can be heard no more. It's only then that his brain starts to process, and soon enough, his body follows suit, expelling a rising tide of bile from his guts. Holstering his pistol, he slumps down against a lamppost and covers his face with his hands. _What in God's name is happening here?_

Respite is short, yet another dull blow connecting with his skull. He puts his arms in front of him to prevent his chin colliding with the pavement. Rolling to his side and propping himself up on his right knee, he focuses on the assailant.

The attacker wears overalls spattered with black liquid, possibly a mechanic's uniform. He's holding a small metal pipe with a rusty chain wrapped around the end. The mask over his face bars all chance of identification.

"Who are-" Finn can't even finish his sentence, the blow to his head taking toll. Sound and vision begin to escape him but determination still remains. He reaches for his pistol, but the brain is fading and the body can't carry out the order, his hand missing the holster and sending him crashing to the pavement.

He shakes his head clear and with one last rush of adrenaline, he rises up and charges towards his opponent, ready to take him down. A simple barge of the shoulder knocks Jones off balance, and he crashes waist first into a metal railing, expelling him over the edge. Hurtling downwards, he hears the air tearing, until finally a cold sensation blankets his body. Liquid blocks up his ears and his final moments of consciousness slip away from him.


	12. Church

XII – Church 

Cole studies the wounds on his right arm and left hand, his brain pining desperately for an explanation. The acidic abrasions have already scarred over, leaving his skin clean and free of pain.

"Impossible…" he stutters, failing to comprehend this happening.

And where the hell was he? Fluffy pillows, silk bed sheets, stone walls, stained glass windows, angelic statues; a chapel of some kind surely, but how did he get here?

Every fibre of his being aches as he pulls himself away from the bed and onto his feet. He picks up his shoes and in finding a cockroach within, nearly jumps out of his skin. It lands on the floor and scuttles away under a gap in the floorboards. Cole recalls the mutated creatures he had seen, and surroundings that had looked the plains of hell itself.

There was an obvious explanation. His fear of the water had gotten to him, leading to loss of consciousness. The images he saw were nothing but a dream, nothing like that could exist on earth. Someone found him on that beach, out cold, and dragged him to this bed.

He throws on his coat and exits through the oak door, leading him into the main chamber. A carpeted isle divides multiple rows of pews, until meeting a few short steps leading up to an altar of white marble. On the walls, beautiful hand-painted images and tapestries hang. Lanterns are fixed to concrete columns dotted around the room, providing the church with a warm, amber glow.

A frail looking woman emerges from the shadows and places her hands on the altar, studying a book and murmuring some kind of prayer.

"Excuse me, I…"

"You don't have to thank me," she says, looking up at him, "For rescuing you,"

"Oh yes… I do appreciate your help. Tell me, what is this place?"

"This is where I come to talk to him,"

"Him?" oh of course, this is a house of God, "Are you the only one left in town?"

"No!" she exclaims, "Now you're here too,"

A side door creaks open, Detective Jones emerging, "Doctor Cole!"

Cole's brow shuffles, "You?"

"I've been looking for you all over town," Jones says.

The woman at the altar seems taken aback all of a sudden.

"I thought this case was closed, Detective?"

"It just got reopened…" Jones notices the woman, "Hey, you again!"  
"You've already met?" Cole asks, "She hasn't told me her name yet. Who are you?"

"Hmm… You're a strange one,"

"I just want to know your name,"

"I told you already, it's Myshella,"

"So you've have met?" Jones asks.

"No, this is the first time I've seen her. Woke up and here I was,"  
"Yeah me too. You dragged us both out here, lady?"

"You ask… some strange questions," she replies, returning attention to her scriptures.

Cole and Jones exchange baffled glances before continuing.

"Now that I've found you both," Jones says, "It's time for us to leave,"

"Oh, you can't leave,"

"Can't leave?" Cole questions.

"Didn't you listen to me the first time? Only the dark one opens and closes the door to Silent Hill,"

A thought suddenly strikes Cole, a huge piece of the jigsaw. Jack and his crazy story, wanting revenge upon God, agents dressed in mechanics uniforms and now this, a crazy nun alone in the town of Silent Hill. There had to be some connection.

"Are you sure you're the only one here?" Cole questions, "You haven't seen anyone else have you?"

"Those that remain on the borders remain there for a reason. They wouldn't dare enter this place,"

"I've seen someone," Jones says, "Before the crazy bastard attacked me with a pipe,"

"You were attacked?" Cole questions.

"Yeah, a guy wearing overalls, his face was covered so I didn't really see much,"

With a piercing gaze, Myshella shoots up from the book, "Heathens! Do not speak of them in this holy place!"  
"So you lied. There is someone else here," Jones says.

"They… never enter the town," Myshella replies, turning away from the men.

"Who are they?" Cole asks, becoming further intrigued.

"Murderers, deceivers," she snaps, "Their words are poison, you must not listen,"

"I don't think that's gonna be a problem," Jones replies, "They didn't seem intent on talking,"

"They must have been desperate to enter this place," she begins to laugh, staring hard at the men, "I guess there's more to you than I realised,"

"Okay, this has gone far enough," Jones declares, "I'm taking you both back to Brahms,"

Cole's face shifts from intrigue to concern. Myshella smirks at the Detective's blind enthusiasm, "Leave, I dare you to try. You'll only be wasting your time,"

She quickly moves over towards a door at the end of the room.

"Hey, stop right there!" Jones demands.

She halts and without looking says, "He likes to move around. The lighthouse will guide the way," and with that, she's gone.

Jones runs up to the door but to his dismay, it won't even budge.

"Hey, give me a hand with this, Doctor…"

No reply. Jones whizzes around to discover he is alone again.

"Shit!" he cries, damning his carelessness.

Prioritizing, he makes for the front door, in pursuit of Doctor Cole. Next time, he'd have to get the handcuffs ready.


	13. Guide

XIII – Guide 

Without a map, finding the lighthouse would be nearly impossible, especially in this mist. He hadn't seen it when he was down at the beach earlier, meaning it could be further along the coast. Cole would have to find his way back to the coastline. Following it along would surely lead him to his destination.

Doors of abandoned shops creak as he runs passed them, display windows with mannequins, eyes that seem to follow his every movement. The clanking of metal at his feet alerts him, he looks down to see nothing but concrete. More shops pass, trees and parks, nothing out of the ordinary, at least not in a normal town. In this place, everything seems _wrong_ somehow. The scraping of metal and pattering of dogs paws echo all around him but he ignores it, forces it out of his mind.

Below him, he can hear water flowing freely. As he crosses the bridge, he hears a slow grunting sound, and the clashing of fists on concrete. He does not stop, pressing on until the sound is out of earshot.

As he reaches the other side of the bridge, something terrible catches his eye. A stream of claret liquid oozes from the toll booth, trickling down a nearby drain and shooting off into the river below. He approaches gingerly, slowly placing a hand on the cracked wooden door. What he sees inside is something he never hoped he'd witness again.

No doubt about it, this was a 'Crispin' kill.

In the swivel chair, the poor soul, slashed beyond recognition, lies frozen. The skin on his arms sliced into ribbons, strips of skin hanging down from his body like tentacles. On his chest, an unusual symbol is carved by Cole doesn't know what it is.

He notices something on the ground, glimmering in a pool of crimson, a small, unmarked key, blue in colour. Next to it, a pocket torch lies.

Both items will be useful to him, so he tucks them away inside his jacket. He's alerted…

His temple receives a strong blow and he loses control of his body for a second. His eyes come into focus, his attacker a deformed creature in the same ilk as a large gorilla. Feral eyes beneath a rough slit on its face stare at Cole, as it jumps around him, grunting and gasping, readying the kill. Cole acts fast, kicking the monster in the face, knocking it onto its back.

He pulls himself out of the booth, only to feel a dull pain in his calf. He stumbles, but stays on his feet. Acting fast, he throws his foot onto the window sill and pulls himself up onto the top of the tool booth.

He watches in dismay as the ape-like creature circles around him, occasionally bashing against the booth, nearly shaking him off. He stares at the creature, and for a moment, a spark of recognition fizzes in his brain. His concentration is broken by the familiar, rising wail. It's that siren again.

It rumbles through his ears, reaching deep inside him, tearing at his soul. The roar is stronger this time. Cole has to grab hold of the sharp corners of the booth, the pain shooting through his hands the only thing stopping him from passing out.

Below him, the gorilla creature pounds its fists against the concrete floor, groaning in pain. To Cole's dismay, strips of skin begin to detach from the monster, standing up and flapping around on its back and arms. Blood jettisons out of deep wounds on its body, as it slumps to the ground, twitching violently. Cole takes his chance.

Throwing himself off the toll booth, he is bewildered to land on a thin metal mesh, nearly giving way under his weight. If not for the presence of the mutating creature lying next to him, he'd almost believe he was in an entirely different place than before. Shops were replaced by rusty metal towers, windows peering into dark pits within. Trees had turned to burning stakes, dismembered corpses hung from telephone wires, dripping blood from above. The sky above him turned from hazy white, to a charcoal grey. The radio in his pocket let out a deafening screech as all traces of light faded from existence; all but one, a flickering radiance way off in the distance.

He made his way towards the light, not knowing what it was or where it would lead him. He flicks the pocket torch on to guide his way, each step heightened his anguish, fearing he might come crashing through the weak metal grating and be swallowed by the all-ensuing darkness below.

He loses his footing, and before he can even think about standing, the creature pounces on his vulnerable position. It pins his arms down, impeding all movement. A hole opens up on its face, skin splitting in four different directions, revealing jagged yellow teeth and a black, snake-like tongue.

It limply flops out of its mouth, striking Cole on the forehead. Thick saliva drips from its mouth, as it prepares to cull its prey. Cole closes his eyes, hopes, wishes, prays, whatever. His wife and kid; he… couldn't remember them. It could've been the panic consuming him, but in his final moments, _he couldn't even remember their faces. _He shuts down entirely, awaiting his final rest.

And then, the purging fire rises, prayers are answered. The smell of dead flesh is overshadowed by warm led, by gunshot smoke, by the mark of a second chance. The creature lets out a final, pained roar, before Jones kicks it hard to the ribs, expelling it from Cole's torso.

He extends a hand to Cole, peeling him up off the serrated metal grating.

There are no words between the two men. Both of them professionals of logic, their lives founded on fact, stare clueless at the inexplicable horror around them. Alerted by the gunshot, more creatures begin to pile towards them, approaching in an uneven wave, salivating, obeying their base desires.

"Move!" Jones cries, piling towards the light in the distance.

Their plan is quickly dashed, their way barred by bent mesh, metal teeth sticking up from of the dark pit below. They spin around, desperately searching for reprieve. Cole shines the pocket light to the east, the clear blue lettering standing out against the white background.

They run, the street seemingly stretching on forever, the sound of metal mesh being pounded, violent predators clicking at their heels. They reach the building, their make shift haven. Jones searches desperately for a window to smash but there is nothing but thick metal sheets and wiring. The key!  
Cole removes it from his pocket. With one last hope, preying the key will fit the lock, he inserts it and turns. It clicks into place and the rusty door cracks open. Jones slams it with his shoulder, nearly dislodging it from its hinges. With the aid of the Doctor, they shove it closed behind them, severing one of the creature's hands between door and frame.

The muffled cries of the angry monsters outside are no longer a concern, as a wave of relief washes over them. Cole whizzes the pocket light around the room. It's a police station.

After a few minutes of fruitlessly bashing against the immovable iron door, the creatures finally lose interest. Cole watches through a corroded section of the wall as they slink away into the darkness.

"I thought I was dreaming…" Cole says, staring at the severed hand on the floor.

"I don't have your answers Doctor. This place, it's like nothing on Earth,"

Jones throws Officer Peters' notes onto the counter.

"That's the best I got,"

Cole flicks through the first few pages.

"I've… seen this before,"

"No, that's confidential police information,"

"Yeah but I've seen this before, In the Silent Hill hall of records,"

"When did you go to the hall of records?"

"I…" Cole stops to think, "… don't know,"  
"Doctor," Jones says, grabbing his shoulders, "I need you to keep focused. I can't figure this out alone,"

Finn slumps his weary back against the wall, pensive, locked in thought.

"Thing is, I tried to ignore it at first but… I've seen it all over town,"

"Seen what?"

"Maybe it was intuition. Maybe I was just scared, call it what you want. When I first got here, I walked for a little while then my mind started playing tricks on me. Hearing shit that wasn't there, you know, stuff like that,"

"I don't think that was all in your mind Detective,"

"Yeah well, I didn't know how big this town was, I didn't know if I'd be able to find you on my own. I went back to the car to call for backup. The trouble is, I turned round and…"

"Yeah?"

"The road was out. Just like it says in those notes, the main road out of town was _out_,"

"Out?" Cole questions.

"Well, not so much out as not even there _at all_,"

Cole notices the plaster on Jones' head, "Seems you hit your head a little _too_ hard, Detective,"

"I'm just telling you what I saw. There's a lot stranger things going on around here than disappearing roads,"

Cole cannot disagree, "Well, you're the cop. What do we do now?" he asks.

"You tell me, Doctor. I'm stuck in this hellhole because of you,"

"I didn't ask you to come here,"

"And you know what? I came _this_ close to not bothering. I just didn't want a rich Doctor with more money than sense to wind up dead in the middle of nowhere,"

"Especially not when I was under SAPD protection, right?" Cole retorts.

All falls silent.

"What about a boat?" Jones says, "Perhaps we could sail down the coastline?"

Cole shakes his head, "I can't do that,"

"What's wrong Doctor, can't you swim?" Jones quips.

"My sister," Cole hesitates, "She died in the water,"

"Oh…" Jones mutters awkwardly, "I had a sister too. A long time ago,"

"What happened to her?"

"She was murdered. It's why I became a cop,"

Both men go quiet, their thoughts fixed on their loved ones.

"Stay here, I'm gonna take a look around" Jones says, before heading into a back room.

He slams his back up against the door and lets out a frustrated groan. He tries the light switch. Of course, like everything else in this town, it's out. Flicking on his own pocket torch, he scans the small room around him. There's a desk, a billboard, a few filing cabinets. One of the metal drawers is ajar, a yellow file sticking out. Jones pulls it free, a small Dictaphone slipping out of the envelope and crashing to marble floor.

Luckily, nothings broken it begins to play as normal. Before the sound arrives, he stares at the tape label through the Dictaphone's plastic cover.

"It can't be…"

But it was…. Crispin. The killer's voice kicks in and the label's markings are confirmed.

'My family is dead. I'm surrounded by death. _I might as well be dead_. This town… I can't explain. You'd have to see it with your own eyes. I'd urge you not to come here. I'd tell you about the monsters, the evil, the _unexplainable_… but seeing as you're listening to this tape, I guess it's too late for that.'

The recording breaks off for a moment, as if Crispin was alerted by something nearby. He returns, shaken, 'There are things in this place beyond human comprehension. It feeds on our past, our sins. I don't know if there's any escape other than…. The lighthouse will show the way. But don't go there. _Don't_ go there. Don't go there. Don't go there.

Don't go there.

Don't go there. _Please_.

Don't go there.

Don't go there.

Don't go there,'

It repeats like this, the urgency growing in each articulation, for minutes on end before Jones stops the tape.

"The lighthouse…?"

Jones remembers what that strange lady had said back in the chapel, 'He likes to move around. The lighthouse will guide the way,'

If he'd been confused earlier, he was totally clueless now. He tried to fight the fear, tried to keep on the straight and narrow. He thought about Carter. Would it make any difference if he was here? Would a veteran cop know what to do in a situation like this?

What was that Carter said? … 'It don't make you any less of a man for being scared. Some of the best cops on the force know fear like it's the back of their hand. We're all…'

We're all…. _what_? Finn couldn't even remember. Couldn't remember the end of that sentence, couldn't remember the moment Carter had said it. He couldn't even remember his partner's voice or face. How long had he been in this town? His brain told him he'd only been here a matter of hours, but it didn't feel like that. It felt like he'd _always_ been here, trapped inside this infernal nightmare for all time. He tried to remember his life, straight down the timeline. He tried to remember his parents, his friends, his sister… none of it made sense anymore. It wasn't like should be. They weren't memories he could easily access. They were more like a story someone had told him long ago. He'd remember it… but he wasn't the protagonist. He was a spectator, watching, learning.

"Gotta get a grip," he mutters, trapping his temple with a fisted hand.

He once again became aware of the Dictaphone in his hand. Crispin had been to Silent Hill, he experienced this nightmare and it drove him crazy. _Don't go there_. Don't go to the lighthouse.

"Fuck you Crispin," he spat, throwing the Dictaphone against the wall. It shattered into multiple pieces and fell to the floor.

"I'll go where I want,"

Through the plasterboard wall on the other side of the room, a scraping sound can be heard.

"Doctor Cole?" Jones calls.

The curious sound goes dead.

He returns to the main lobby, "Doctor…?", no one here.

A nearby door creaks ajar, flickering orange hue streaking out from within. He approaches and pulls the door open aggressively, "Cole!"

The Doctor isn't here.

"What the hell?"

The room is empty except for a solitary table seated in the centre of the floor. Atop it stand two wax candles in black holders. They burn, as does a pot of incense nearby. A strange circular symbol that Jones recognises is carved on the wall, its outline a striking crimson colour.

"Doctor Cole?" he calls once more, growing concerned.

He can't take his eyes off the unusual symbol on the wall. Two circles, outer and inner, encase an isosceles triangle, an unfamiliar language scribed within. Nothing else around him seems to matter as he stares at each character, each powerful curve. It draws him towards it, gripping his attention. It _speaks_ to him.

"Lighthouse," he nods.


	14. Free Will

XIV – Free Will 

The darkness outside remained, but it now filled Cole with a strange sense of serenity. The monsters have disappeared, the air has cooled down. No sounds but the whirring generated by the unusual metallic windmills around him.

He didn't even need to use his map to find the lighthouse. The only paths that weren't broken were leading him directly towards the shimmering light in the sky.

He walked and he walked, a peculiar catharsis passing over him. He'd been a psychiatrist for some years now, helping other people confront their evils, all the while never addressing his _own_ fears. In a way he can't properly understand, it feels as if this town is aiding him, _helping_ him look inside himself. After all, where does a psychiatrist go to get help?

He is by no means _enjoying_ the experience, but if he ever escapes this town, life would seem a hell of a lot different from now on.

His thoughts echoed back to prior days. Jack Crispin had claimed he wanted revenge on God, revenge on a deity in Silent Hill that had murdered his family. But his accusations were incorrect. It wasn't God but _men_ that had slaughtered his wife and child two years ago. Cole knows it. There _is_ a being in Silent Hill, possibly a creature that could be labelled as a God, and this poor soul is shrouded in suffering. This God was calling out to him, perhaps it needed his help?

The calming sound of the waves tickled his eardrums. He was nearing now, the light bright enough to guide his feet. The sound of metal being drummed started to beat through his head, maybe the noise produced by some sort of generator nearby, possibly.

A wooden pier extended across the seafront towards his destination. The light was strong now, powerful like floodlights on a football pitch. Static began to fizz and whirr from the pocket radio, as he notices creatures leaning against the pier banisters, just like tourists had done decades ago. They are dressed like humans, though the skin beneath the clothing is slimy and grotesque. But Cole does not mind. They acknowledge him, nodding as he walks passed. Seagulls are chirping, children are laughing. There is no fear.

A few short steps take him to the front of the lighthouse door. He peers back, noticing the creatures are all watching him. They have no eyes, no mouths, no features to highlight their expressions, yet Cole knows they are urging him forward. He nods, parting with a warm smile.

He can hear his wife's voice calling as he ascends the spiral staircase inside. He reaches the top, and opens the trapdoor. He is greeted by a white light which fills him with…

Jones furiously reloads his gun for the umpteenth time. As he sets foot on the peer, the roars of the tormented creatures threaten to swallow his mind entirely. He checks the inside of his coat… no more clips. After his current magazine was emptied, that would be all.

He tries to shut out the noise as he darts along the wooden pier. His eyes are fixed on the floor in front of him. He knows creatures are passing by him, trying to reach out and pull him into the darkness but he forces his way through, firing the odd warning shot when they get too close.

Without even stopping, he barges the lighthouse door open and begins to ascend the spiral staircase, nearly slipping on the wet metal. He smashes the trapdoor open. No sign of Doctor Cole.

The foul scent of rotting meat wafts across the sea front. Using his pocket flashlight, he determines his surroundings. On the centre of the floor, that strange symbol sits, the same one he'd seen back at the police station only much larger this time. The lighthouse lamp is off, presumably due to generator failure. There is no glass surrounding him, as he might have expected, and there are no banisters to impede falling off the edge.

A handkerchief lies on the floor, some text on it, scribbled hastily.

'Four clicks left, three right, two left, one right. There's no time like the present,'

"No time like the present…" Jones mumbles, eyeing a small crack beneath the extinguished lamp.

He places a hand on it and turns, four left, three right, two left and one right. Something sputters to life below his feet, the foundations of the lighthouse rumbling. A thumping noise can be heard, a rising metallic crescendo. With a garish squeal, the lamp in front of him begins to rotate, until stopping cracking into place moments later. The tungsten filament fizzes and splutters until light screens his vision. He averts his eyes and walks around the front of the lamp. A beam of light shoots out into the darkness, away from the town, settling upon on giant, rusted Ferris wheel, standing out against the seafront.

Consulting his map, he identifies the path he has taken and the destination that lies ahead. A small pamphlet drops.

He stoops to study it.

'Lakeside Amusement Park, where all the family come to scream,'


	15. Progression

XV – Progression 

"Perhaps we should look inside your head, Jack Crispin?"


	16. Ward

XVI – Ward 

"What the hell?" Jones cries, furiously trying to force the lighthouse door open. Someone has locked him inside! There are words hastily written on the door in red crayon: 'You're not ready yet,'

He scans the small circular floor area. Something catches his eye, so he shines his pocket torch light upon it. A segment of the wall is coloured differently from the rest. Prodding it with his finger, it feels soft, like recently laid cement. No wait, it almost feels…. fleshy.

He kicks it with force and it indeed, tears like organic matter, plunging his foot into a viscous, tar like substance. The smell makes him gag.

Knowing there is no other way out of this tower, he gingerly tears the unknown matter away until there is a hole big enough to fit through. Covering his mouth with one hand, he uses the other to flash the beam into the uncharted tunnel. It proves fruitless, the black gunk blocking all chance of seeing anything.

"Hello?" he calls.

He knew that one wouldn't bring results. Only one thing for it, it seems.

"Look for another way," he mutters, losing his nerve.

He places one foot on the spiral staircase before the whispering stops him in his tracks. A voice emanates from the hole, offering no concrete words but instead, some form of chanting. It's calling out to him.

He shakes his head and ignores it, going up one more step. No good! His curiosity begins to peak. What's down there? Certain death, maybe? The tunnel is tiny; no large man would fit down it. Would he become trapped and swallowed alive by the glutinous substance caked all over the walls?

Enough thinking, time for action. He dashes, all thoughts dispelled, towards the hole, diving into the rough, fleshy passageway like an Olympic swimmer into water.

His sight is useless in this darkness, but he feels movement, and speedy movement at that. His body is sliding, nearly plummeting at this gradient, into the unknown. The voice soothes his passage. It reminds him of his sister.

Momentary sight is again engulfed by deep blur. He has fallen into water, and he thrashes about as it tickles his skin. It smells awful, like toxic waste, like death.

Pushing himself up to the surface, his eyes finally have use. He appears to be in a swimming bath. Corpses float on the surface, ten of them at least.

Jones cringes at the morbid sight.

Using the rusted metal ladder, he pulls himself onto his feet and allows the torrents of sewage-laden liquid drain out of his clothes. He rubs his eyes clean and words scribed on the wall in fluorescent colouring jump out at him.

'You have been purged,'

A flick of the eye below this odd statement, there is another word, this one written with the odd black tar like substance. It says: 'physically'

"You have been purged… physically?" Jones muses.

The room around him could be identified as a _normal_ swimming bath, had it been cleaned once or twice over the last fifty years and not riddled with corpses. The sight, though terrible to the extreme, was becoming commonplace in this wretched town. He was more concerned that one of the dead would soon shoot into life in an attempt to murder him. He fingers the gun seated in its holster. It was dripping wet, just like the rest of him. For the time being, the firearm would be out of service.

Tiles on the floor, once chequered black and white, were now festering with mould, as was the inside of the pool itself. The whole room, presumably a gleaming bright white in its day, had long ago succumbed to a gloomy shade of brown. Whatever this place was, it was decommissioned some time ago.

His thankfully waterproof torchlight flickers back on. The CB radio hanging from his belt crackles slightly.

The polluted water reeks, so he makes towards a clearly marked exit. Trying to escape the smell would prove pointless, knowing full well he's drenched in this poison. He has to fight the urge to throw up.

Outside of the room is hardly any different, the first thing that greets him a slimy corpse hanging upside down in a metal cage. It appears to have been wrapped in bandages, stained strips in puss coloured yellow. Shining his light down the corridor, he notices that these unfortunate souls decorate the whole entire stretch of the wall, twenty of them at least. His spit thickens as his spirit wavers. This place has something terrible in store, he can feel it in his bones.

From down below, a loud metallic clank on ceramic stone sounds out, followed by a deep, protracted moan. To Jones, the expression sounds almost sexual. The CB radio sputters out a frequency, which dies down within seconds.

He passes by the ornamental dead until he finds himself staring at rusty door with an alphabetic combination lock binding it shut.

"The key to your mind," Jones muses, as he picks the words from below the doorknob.

What does that mean? There are no further clues in the immediate area.

A frequency from CB radio spikes again, this time violently, the pained electronic screech creeping through the narrow corridor.

"What the hell is wrong with this thing?"

He assumes water has damaged the device, so he removes the battery in an attempt to disable it entirely. The CB's speaker does not die down, even with its power source removed.

His attention is quickly stolen by a flash on the ceiling, a slight twinkle in the corner of his eye. Something is moving above him. He gingerly passes under, not for one moment removing his eyes from the darkness up top.

And then, it descends behind him, a revolting mess of flesh and metal.

It presents itself as an overgrown, organic potato sack, fat literally oozing out of various torn orifices about its form. From stumps were fleshy appendages should sprout, long metal blades extrude as an alternative. These sharpened limbs revolve in spiral movement, a metal roll-cage which threatens to slice Jones' skin to ribbons.

Where rusted iron fuses loosely with flesh, the skin simmers and bubbles, thousands of darkened veins working hard to keep blood flowing to overworked areas.

To accompany its heinous appearance, the ungodly sound of gnawing metal generates from an unknown location on its body. By all intents and purposes, this dreadful creature surely runs the risk of tearing itself apart but Jones can't stand here and wait for that to happen. It'll take him down before that happens. Sparks fly around the corridor as it pulls itself along the walls and floor, approaching him with haste. Jones throws himself back through the doorway and again finds himself in the swimming pool area.

Sliding on its side, the dreadful fiend squeezes awkwardly through the open door, before clambering onto two metal extremities. Like a tortured spider at the mercy of a sadistic child, it struggles to keep balance on what limbs it has. Jones notices a third limb, no… not an arm or leg but a razor-sharp shaft akin to the stinger of a bee. It thrashes about eagerly, gelatinous venom excreting from a small hole on the tip.

It begins to charge, so Jones throws himself back into the pool, hoping the creature will be scared of the liquid. As he looks upwards, his hope is expelled, the blades tearing through the surface, losing little speed against the resistance of the water.

Jones swims along the bottom, darting left at right to avoid the hellish knives that thrash past him. The corpses floating on the surface are torn to asunder by the unrelenting blades, leaving behind a rotten cloud of dark fluid before being discarded like rag dolls. Unfortunately for Jones, the creature recognises the difference between dead and living flesh.

He manages the reach the poolside ladder and quickly pulls himself out. Water whips across the room as the creature skims along the surface. It notices his evasion and adjusts its trajectory, climbing awkwardly out of the pool, taking up an attacking position in front of Jones.

Somewhat recklessly, the Detective darts towards the creature and launches himself into a streamlined manoeuvre, sliding under the creature's body. Bamboozled by the man's movements, the repulsive organism tries to spin around but only succeeds in losing its balance entirely, crashing down onto tiled ground. Jones capitalises on the opportunity, darting towards the exit.

Before long, the sickening sound of gnawing metal rises again and the creature is upon him once more. Almost in slow motion, he reaches the other side of the wooden door and slams it shut behind him. No, it won't shut, not with the monsters limb trapped between door and frame.

The ghastly leg begins to swell and pulsate, blood building up under the pressure. The creature buries its free leg into the wooden door, piercing right through, nearly taking Jones' eye out. He leans away, pulling harder and harder on the door-handle. The weak organic connections of the monster's joints threaten to split apart completely under the rising pressure. With one final effort, the door slams shut and the hazardous appendage tears from its owner, followed by a rupture of inky lifeblood.

Jones' back slams against metal cage hanging from the wall. He stands there frozen as he listens to the creature wail and moan, desperately seeking its severed limb. It tries to pull its remaining leg away from the door, but it's stuck firmly in the wood.

After thrashing about madly for a few moments, it eventually gives in, choosing instead to sit and whimper pathetically. From behind the door, Jones can feel its pain, like an injured child reaching out for its mother. He closes his eyes and breathes a deep sigh of relief.

"There is no time for rest!" a male voice calls out.

The CB radio crackles, his eyes flash open and he knows something is there. He studies the still twitching limb on the floor and wonders if the blade can be used as a weapon. There's no time. All he can do is flinch as a knife flashes across his neck and…

… Something feels wet.


	17. Trials of the Mind

XVII – Trials of the Mind 

He breaks roughly from the dream. He saw a park, green lawns, blue skies, children playing. From that peaceful image he is quickly shaken back into reality, as he finds himself sitting in a dank looking office in the dark, staring at an empty brown cabinet, shards of glass sitting at his feet.

Memories trigger within him. He frantically fingers his neck, expecting his hand to return covered in blood. It's clean. He calms himself and examines further. A thin line is present where a gaping wound should be. He was certain a blade had come across him just now, before he passed out. But there is no evidence of this except… a scar? How could the wound heal so fast? Had he been lying against this wall for weeks? _More questions_.

With the aid of a nearby desk, he pulls himself up into a standing position. This room is just like the rest, filthy and rusted. He was still trapped in this basement, deep below the surface of the lighthouse.

He studies the cabinet on the wall. Forced entry has seen the glass shattered and the contents inside removed. Wait, no… there's an old piece of paper here. The typed letterhead shows contact details, presumably of this institution.

'Meadowbank Asylum for the Criminally Insane, West Stanford Street, Silent Hill'

So, he was in a mental asylum? Further inspection of the letter told him of the date of printing; 14th June 1962. A solitary word is present in the centre of the page, in blue handwritten ink.

'Hello.'

That's it: hello. Jones notices pressure indentations on the paper, so he flips it over and examines the back. More written words say:

'Sorry, we're closed… But for you, we can make an exception,'

He flashes the light around the room but there is nothing of further interest, so he heads for the exit.

He now finds himself in some sort of examination room. Broken tiles litter the ground, leaving holes in walls that follow through to aging brown paint on rough stone. Cabinets hang lopsided, cracks in the ceramics knocking them off centre. Various surgical implements, all rusted and old, lay on rotten wooden tables. There doesn't seem to be another way out of the room.

In the corner nearest too him, Jones notices a plastic curtain, partially drawn, a filthy hospital gurney poking out from beyond the gap.

"Strange," he ruminates, staring at the solitary bed spread.

Cheek hits floor. A cold sensation passes over him. His skull is still shaking from the strike. Ears aren't working properly.

He tries to resist as someone picks him up with one strong arm and slams him hard onto the filthy bed. As his back contacts, it feels like thousands of tiny pins are jutting up into his flesh.

He gets a blurred look at the attacker as it straps his arms and legs in tightly. But that's all it is, a blur. Though he determines the shape is humanoid, whether it's _human_ is a different matter entirely.

His eyes sting as a halogen lamp flickers into life above him. He squints to block out the pain. The man or monster begins to examine Jones closely. It runs its slimy hands down his arms, seizes his wrists; tests how sharp his fingernails are.

A filthy, clawed hand with three, no, two and a half fingers plus a thumb pinches his cheeks firmly, piercing skin. The glare from the light blocks out the creature's face, even as it leans closer to examine Jones' eyeballs, forcing his eyelids open for an excruciating amount of time. It's wearing a white uniform, Doctor's scrubs stained with blood.

It prises his mouth open and runs its mutated index finger across both lines of teeth. Jones considers biting down hard but he's frozen in terror, the rancid taste left behind by the ogre's finger heightening his fear. He begins to cry out desperately, hoping that there is still someone left who can help him.

The creature grunts in disapproval, before shoving a strange, slimy object into Jones' mouth, an oral blindfold designed to block out its victims screams. Whatever it is, the slimy texture makes Jones throw up inside his own mouth, and he begins to choke on the unwanted expulsion.

The creature mocks Jones with a throaty laugh, watching as he thrashes around, unable to breath. The Detective composes himself as best he can and manages to swallow the discharge down, bit by bit, until eventually his airways become clear once more. Tears form in his eyes as his baser instincts begin to take over. He tries to spit the offending object out of his mouth but it appears to have anchored itself in, wrapping miniscule tendrils around his exposed tongue.

Jones looks on in horror, as the creature brandishes a surgical saw, which he scrapes across the front of his own hand, testing its sharpness. A thin cut opens up, as the creature nods in satisfaction.

"Perhaps we should look inside your head, J… -"

J? ... Jones? The creature has a man's voice and it knows who he is! Or maybe the voice belongs to someone else? Maybe there is someone else inside the room?

In Jones' dreamlike state, the words seem to echo like the speaker was alive inside his head.

"Don't worry," he chortles, "Just a little joke. We may be underground, but we couldn't get away with murder here," he pauses, quelling his amusement, "In all seriousness though, there _is_ a problem, don't you agree?"

Jones tries to cry out but the living lump of meat parked in his mouth prevents his words from filtering through.

"Yes that's right!" the voice cries, responding generically, "You _do_ have a problem!"

Whoever he is, he sounds like he's done this a million times before.

"You see… I'm on the verge of retirement. I've watched a hundred thousand patients spill through my doors and well, I ain't gonna lie to ya, you're the last of a pretty sick bunch,"

Jones continues to cry out to no avail.

"And as you're the last, it's my duty to sign off in style. It's a _simple_ procedure…"

Procedure, what procedure? Jones' heart threatens to burst out of his chest as the figure in front of him produces a bone saw from the wooden work surface. It's rusty, the teeth of the blade covered in dried blood, a sign that this _procedure_ has been implemented before.

"… Nah, I'm just yanking your chain! I know you're not gonna fall for that one," the voice says, "You're problems are more than just _skin deep_,"

He interludes with a dissatisfied sigh, "Disappointing as it may be, hacking into your brain would be… _unproductive_. Besides, I guess _he_ wouldn't be too happy about it,"

Still Jones is given no opportunity to talk.

"Aw hell, who am I kidding?" the voice teases, "I can't deny myself some fun on my _final patient_, can I now?"

Jones squirms around frantically as the creature lowers the saw towards his cranium.

"Besides, he can't catch me where I'm going,"

A crack; a definite cracking noise! Jones tears his attention away from the fiend to notice the buckle fastening his right arm has slipped out of place, the years and years of rust taking toll on the metal, betraying its function. With all the strength he has, he pulls his arm upwards.

The fabric of the strap strains as he manages to overcome his bonds. The metal buckle snaps open and the belt becomes slack, freeing up his arm. Completing this movement, Jones flings a closed fist into the monster's face, startling it. It drops the bone saw onto the ceramic tiles below.

The fiend slowly arches it's back and leans over, more concerned with picking up the fallen tool than securing its victim. With his free hand, Jones swiftly unbuckles his left arm and sits up, leaning across to his bound feet. In the corner of his eye he notices the creature re-emerge, the instrument of death gripped tightly, ready to strike.

Jones wastes no further time, unbuckling both feet simultaneously and flinging himself from the Gurney. The monster strikes, the saw narrowly missing the back of Jones' skull. Jones writhes on the floor, desperately trying to free his foot, which is tangled in one of the loose leg straps. He begins to panic as the creature slowly trudges around the bed, wobbling the saw menacingly.

Jones pulls on the strap sharply with his leg and the gurney topples over, distracting his enemy. He sits up, the problematic object now in arms reach, and pulls his foot free, falling back and twisting into a prone position. He throws himself up onto his feet quickly and turns to meet his assailant, readjusting his eyes and pointing his now dried off pistol with intent. There is no attacker in sight.

"Spoil my fun why don't ya?" the voice mocks, "Don't waste you're bullets. I'll save you the trouble,"

A flash of light startles him and a deafening crack sounds out from behind the curtain. The tell-tale smell of gun smoke follows. Jones goes down on one knee and stays quiet. A long period of silence passes before the Detective begins to move, one step at a time, the pistol shaking in his nervous hands. With an outstretched arm, he reaches out and grabs the edge of the plastic curtain...

Opening the drapes reveals a mutated figure in a nearby chair, a smouldering pockmark visible in the side of its head. A freshly discharged shell lies on the floor, underneath the pistol gripped by the creature's right hand.

A final, protracted gasp escapes from the dying beast before its clouded grey eyes close for the last time. Jones stands motionless, staring at this aberration of nature. When would this nightmare end?

His gun is still fixed on the monster as he makes his approach. He kicks the creature's weapon away from its hand for safe measure. Even when he stoops to pick up a bloody note on the floor, he keeps one eye fixed on the lifeless form, half expecting it to spring back to life at any moment. Thankfully it refrains from such miraculous acts, giving Jones time to read the hastily scribbled letter.

'Dr. Jeremiah McKenzie, last will and testament.

I give it all to the town, _almost_ everything. My tools, this building, he can have it. But there is one thing he will not take from me. I've been down here for an immeasurable period of time. My body has changed, _I have changed_. For all eternity I would bring them here, preparing them for the exchange but no, not any more! It's over. I've been saving it for a day like this.

My only regret is that I did not have an extra bullet for you, Jack,'

"Jack?" Cole ponders.

The name is scrawled in red crayon, making it stand out amongst the black ink of the adjacent text, as if it was added to an already pre-written passage. At the bottom of the page, a line is typed, probably some kind of motto: 'Look no further for the _key to your mind_,'

Though Jones has discovered it first, this note is almost certain intended for Jack Crispin's perusal. He folds it up and places in into his pocket.

"The key to your mind," he mutters, before a connection sparks in his brain.

A door reveals itself behind the curtain. Opening it leads him into a familiar corridor, caged corpses lining the walls. It may be his imagination but their heads appear to have turned. Behind bandaged eyes, they stare at him. He ignores it, shaking the thought from his mind.

Though the combination lock is nearly useless from the rust, with care he is able to spell out the word 'JACK'. It clicks in acceptance, affording Jones his prize. The door swings open and he is greeted by a giant stairwell, leading upwards. As he ascends, the stagnant air of the basement is slowly replaced by a cooling zephyr. He never thought he'd be so glad to see the town again.


	18. Clowns

XVIII – Clowns 

The silence concerns Jones. All has fallen still. Whatever lay in wait at the Lakeside Amusement Park wanted his progress to remain unimpeded. The monsters slink around in the shadows, no longer concerned by his presence. He was no longer their business.

The thin, grated metal floor had now been replaced by soft, fleshy ground. It feels like walking through a pit of melted marshmallow. His eyes remain focused on the Ferris wheel, illuminated by the lighthouse, each step growing more agonising than the last. This mystery, this nightmarish delusion, would soon reach its conclusion. Or at least, that's what he hoped.

He stops dead in his tracks. The sound is clear, the theme of a clown, that of a carousel. His head turns and he spots a sign lit up in dancing lights: 'Lakeside Amusement Park'.

He stares hard at the open gate and beyond. Something moves within but _what_, more of these hellish creatures? He shuts his eyes and forces the sound away, trying to strengthen his nerve. Ignore it. Move on.

No sooner has he opened his eyes, Jones finds himself on the ground, recoiling from a fierce blow to the jaw. He bypasses the pain, rolling back onto his feet, reaching instantly for his pistol. The attacker knocks it away from his grip and he's left unarmed, staring into the face of a familiar enemy. He makes a mental note of where the gun landed.

There are two of them this time, dressed in blood stained mechanic's uniforms, one white one yellow. They stand still and eye him, waiting for his next move.

"Who the hell are you?" Jones cries.

White steps forward, readying his spiked baseball bat, "Your women cried like whores, you know that? Now it's your turn,"

Jones is bewildered by this odd comment but quickly readies himself for further combat.

Yellow darts forward and with an outstretched arm, pulls his colleague back.

"There has been enough sin on our part. Perhaps we can resolve this like gentlemen?" he croaks, "Let's talk,"

"Talk?" Jones scoffs, "I got a lump on my head that proves you ain't the gentlemanly kind,"

"It's his fault we're in this mess!" the white remarks.

"Step back," yellow, his assumedly higher rank, demands.

"I'll ask again, who are you?" Jones questions, his voice full of tension.

"It isn't important anymore. We're doomed, just like you. We made an agreement to stop anyone from entering the town. Should someone slip passed our net, we would enter in and smite them down, before _he_ could do his work. Even if it meant the end of our lives,"

"He…?"

"It's over for us, there is only one way to escape his wrath. Let's all go quietly, dignified,"  
"You mean…" Jones swallows hard, "… suicide?"

"At this point, you may prefer to call it self-sacrifice,"

"No!" Jones snaps, "I'd never succumb to that. Not while I've still got a job to do,"

"Job?" the spokesman in yellow snorts, "Your old life is over. Nothing from our world matters out here!"  
"Get out of my way," Jones demands.

"You don't understand. We made a promise to each other. We made a _promise_ to our families that have died in this place. No one gets through,"

White lunges at Jones, swiping at his face, rusty nails narrowly missing scraping out an eye. He knocks the man off balance with a blow to the stomach, and dives to the right, grabbing his gun from the ground.

Jones remains on the floor, and White is upon him quickly, following through with a fierce downwards swipe, scraping Jones across the arm. The pain is sharp but it doesn't break his concentration, jolting out two feet, sending white sprawling backwards. He doesn't quite go down, not until Jones unloads two bullets into his chest.

Yellow slumps at the side of his fallen comrade, "… Brother,"

His gaze turns to meet Jones, the barrel of his pistol still smoking from the kill. Even through the mask, Jones can detect the pain.

"Attack!" yellow cries.

The air rips as bullets tear passed his ears. Jones dives behind a nearby tree trunk and waits for the volley of hot lead to dissipate. He peers around the tree to see the man in yellow, and three more dressed in white fleeing into the amusement park. It's only now he realises the pain coursing through his left arm. The cuts aren't as deep as he feared. He bites down hard, forcing the hurt away.

He could leave now, search for another way out. But Cole is nearby, he knows it. What if they got to him first? He couldn't allow that to happen. He'd come here to save the doctor and no matter how crazy things had turned out, his duties still remained.

"Protect and serve," he mutters, before making his way along the fence towards the park entrance.

The music of the carousel still plays, only now it's accompanied by a abnormal metallic grating sound and a faint hint of laughter. Jones shakes his head. It doesn't mean anything, force it out of your mind!

He tries to remember his training but nothing comes out prevalent. Train as he might, in the heat of the moment, instinct would always take over.

The park is quiet, metallic and cold. Jones points his gun furiously as clanking sounds fill his ears from all directions. On a bench nearby, a man-sized rabbit suit sits upright, its mouth smattered with blood. It observes him with a piercing stare, its arm extended, pointing at him menacingly. It almost feels _alive_.

A waste bin clatters to the ground nearby. Jones spins around and instinctively fires a shot. With a muffled groan, a man in white slumps to his knees, clutching the bullet wound in his stomach.

"Thank you," he gasps, before slumping to the ground, lifeless.

That's two down.

Suddenly, lights begin to flicker into life and the park becomes dimly illuminated. In this new found luminosity, Jones spots another of the men crouching on the roof of a hotdog vending booth. A straight shot hits the target, puncturing a hole on the left side of his throat. He climbs to his feet, blood gushing furiously from the hole, attempting to point his pistol. Before he can extend his arm straight and pull the trigger, Jones buries another shot, this time in his attacker's chest, and he flies backwards, landing awkwardly in a nearby hedge.

Two to go.

The lights stay lit and Jones get the odd impression that someone is helping him. He hears someone laughing, amused by the bloody scene but no one stands near.

With a strident grinding of metal, a nearby conveyor belt starts up.

A speaker system fizzles into life, "Crazy Joe's target range: win money, win prizes; earn _respect!_"

Jones watches in horror as various body parts pass by on the belt. The deep, guttural laughter increases in volume, all the while the chirpy clown music repeating, taunting him. Whatever was watching, its amusement was palpable.

A loud whoosh passes by, as rusty old ride springs into life, a Victorian style carriage on a metallic track shooting up into the air. Humanoid creatures stand inside, watching him, ascending and descending on a loop. Oversized arms hang out of broken windows, pointing towards the illuminated Ferris wheel.

The wheel stands on a section of land cut off by a deep, black river. Jones passes over a rickety bridge extending towards a strange formation of rocks. A signboard reads, 'Dare ye enter Captain Quill's cavern? Reward, ye say? Piratey goodness, of course! Ferris wheel's a pirate ships as far as the eye can see!'

A disclaimer, scrawled roughly in crimson colour, follows; 'Passengers are advised to keep their arms inside the carriage at all times, or they may die,'

There's an automated transport system that bypasses the cavern but all the boats seem to have giant holes in them, capsized. Jones swallows his fear, passing into the darkness.

A pulsating green hue illuminates the cavern, but it's hardly enough to help Jones see clearly. A neon sign sputters into life, 'Have a fun ride!'

Jones gets the feeling it's not a request, it's a demand. An arrow points down from the sign, insisting he climb into the carriage seated on the tracks.

He scoffs at the thought and decides to walk instead, fearing the carriage might somehow swallow him alive. It wouldn't surprise him in this hellish place. His pocket torch helps him see a little further, the light it excretes eating away at the darkness. He grips his pistol tightly, thoroughly expecting an ambush.

The sound of a metallic pressure cooker echoes through the cavern, indicating a generator has fired on somewhere. Chilling organ music blasts through the speakers, like something from an old fashioned horror movie. The carriage he left behind comes whirring up behind him, so he jumps onto the wooden walkway to avoid being crushed in its path.

He has no time to react as a mechanic in white tackles him hard, the battling men falling into the passing carriage. It continues its automated journey as the Jones blocks various blows from a wooden bat. From an arms-crossed position, Jones strikes the man across the face with both knuckles.

The carriage begins to move at a speed beyond its design, as Jones grows startled by the flashing lights whizzing by, trying to balance his efforts between fighting and staying aboard the haywire transport. If he fell off at this speed it would cause him a whole world of hurt.

His pistol is on the floor below. In this position, he can't reach it. He furiously searches for a handbrake on the side of the carriage but it isn't going to be that easy. The tracks wind and meander, sending both men off balance. Jones tries to take the opportunity, but the mechanic quickly retains his dominant position, landing blow after blow against Jones' defending forearms.

From behind the man in white, Jones spies a light source rapidly approaching. He braces for impact as best he can.

The carriage collides heavily with a mound of rocks at the end of the line, sending both men hurtling forward. Jones feels a rough crack in his ribs as he lands awkwardly on the dusty ground. Though the pain is immense, he's fights to remain conscious. After expelling a mouthful of blood, he spies his opponent desperately trying to clamber to his feet, the metal spike jutting out of his stomach keeping him down.

Jones explodes into action, jumping to his feet and kicking the mechanic hard in the ribs. He slumps onto his back, screaming in pain. Jones picks up his gun and examines the magazine. Only one bullet left.

"My final bullet," he mutters, dropping the weapon on the ground.

Jones gives offers his foe no mercy, climbing on top of him, constantly landing fist after fist against the feeble cloth mask. Though the screaming stops quickly, Jones continues to strike until all that is left is a bloody mess of a man, the 'Brahams Pit-stop' uniform the only remaining method of identification. Four down, one to go.

"You too have sinned," the man in yellow says,

On the dusty ground, Jones scrambles desperately for his pistol.

"You won't need it," the leader says, "I'm done,"

Jones pauses and looks across to the man. He sits on the ground, holding his stomach, blood pouring from multiple orifices.

"I didn't hit you…" Jones mumbles, his tone questioning.

"Can't you see them?" yellow asks.

Jones whips his head around. Nothing lurks within the darkness.

"My sins run deep," yellow says, "For me, the nightmare is unrepentant,"

Jones eyes the pistol near the mechanic's right hand.

"Promise me one thing," he asks, "Don't succumb to her lies,"

"What so you mean?" Jones questions.

"The Gillespie woman," yellow croaks, "She speaks on his behalf,"

Jones climbs off the corpse and gingerly approaches the wounded man, the pain in his ribs slowing him down to a snail's pace.

"I have sinned and…" he hesitates, strong emotions swelling within him, "I apologise for your loss. What we did was hideous but necessary, I hope you understand…"

"What you did?" Jones mutters. What did he mean?

"This place, it feeds off your sins, makes your fears manifest. But there's one thing deep inside it _cannot_ touch. It's our free will that makes us what we are. Without it, we'd be mindless cattle, just like the creatures trapped in this town. You still have time. Make the right choice, before your mind is no longer yours to control. There is only _one way_ to escape,"

He lifts the pistol and places it firmly under his chin.

"Wait, no!" Jones shouts, "What are you doing?"

With the sickening crack of an exploded jaw, the man in yellow slumps to the ground, his 'self-sacrifice' completed. Jones averts his eyes from the sad mess.

Beyond the scene of murder and chaos, the illuminated Ferris wheel stands still. No wind blows its carriages, no sound can be heard. At the foot of the great structure, an elevator rises and stops at the surface, punctuating its arrival with a polite ding. The doors slide open. Conclusion awaits.


	19. Descent

XIX – Descent 

He spills out of the elevator with his pistol pointed firmly in front of him. There are no targets, just darkness in entirety. A path, supported by no form of structure, appears to float upon nothingness. He squats down and pokes it with his gun, confirming that somehow, it's solid. Logic abandons him as he places both feet on the path, feeling completely confident that it will not collapse under his weight. He walks towards the large double doors in front.

Entering in, he finds himself standing in a green field.

Children run around him. Mothers and fathers feed bread to the ducks. The sun shines.

"A park?" he muses.

The serenity is soon torn asunder, the calmness of a midsummer's day replaced by screams of horror. On the bank in front of him, a man looms over a little boy, scared, curled into a ball. Jones catches sight of two weapons: a serrated knife and a police baton. A dead dog lies in the path.

"Put your hands up!" Jones demands.

The offender spins around and looks at the Detective.

"No…" Jones gasps, "… Crispin!"

The sun fades and he finds himself in a tiny white room, not even wide enough to allow him the full extent of his arms. He cries out for help, growing agitated.

A deep feeling of angst rushes over him, as he pounds on the featureless white door. He strikes the metal surface until his fists hurt. Exhausted and broken, he slumps against the wall and sides to the ground.

"What's happening…?" he murmurs.

The door opens.

More darkness lies beyond, with stairs descending into the empty void. Without a second thought, he presses on until reaching another door, just like the first.

Inside there's a rectangular room, white walls, bars on black windows, silver desk, chairs. The scent of a fresh kill catches on. He turns slowly and eyes the bloody mess in the corner, torn and cut up.

"No…" he sighs desperately, falling to his knees.

Even amongst the blood and the gore, the mess some monstrous creature had left behind, Jones still knew the face. It was Doctor Cole. Crispin had got to him first.

"Bastard!" he blurts, striking the ground with his fist.

He goes into a fit of rage, throwing chairs and knocking over tables. He's failed. For the first time in his life, he's failed at doing his job.

He looks up sharply. Crispin stares at him through the window on the door.

Jones points his pistol but by the time his sights line up with his target, the milieu has again changed. He now stands in a rusty, metallic chamber, dimly lit by dying torchlight over an altar.

Crispin stands on a ledge above, and begins to walk away into the shadows.

"Freeze!" Jones demands.

The multiple-murderer does not comply. Jones wastes no time, firing a shot which tears through Crispin's right shoulder blade.

Jones crashes to his knees, wincing in pain. He scans his surroundings, desperately searching for his attacker but spies no assailant. A smoking bullet wound reveals itself upon Jones' right shoulder.

"What the…?" he mutters, bewildered.

He goes down again, as Crispin flashes by. He's slick, he'd have to be to get away with all those murders. But Jones had caught him before.

This time, however, it seems different. He doesn't seem to have any control. Either he is weaker, or Jack has grown stronger. Powerful blows crack against his skull but he can't raise his arms to defend himself. What's this, hands at his back? He finds himself hurtling forward towards the altar in the centre of the room. His direction switches, and he helplessly collides with a glass mirror hanging on the wall. It shatters into a thousand pieces as the cuts open up on his forehead.

He steadies his blurring vision and pulls himself up onto his elbows. Jack is gone, nowhere to be seen. He leans further until he's sitting up. Blood fills his eyes but he can't deny what he sees.

He lifts a large piece of the broken mirror closer to his face, examining in bewilderment. He looks like him. He feels like him.

"I am…."

Jack/Cole/Jones Jack/Cole/Jones Jack/Cole/Jones Jack/Cole/Jones Jack/Cole/Jones Jack/Cole/Jones Jack/Cole/Jones Jack/Cole/Jones Jack/Cole/Jones Jack/Cole/Jones….

The man pulls himself onto his feet. Shaking his head, he wonders where on earth he is.

"A moment of clarity?" the familiar female voice asks.

"The Gillespie woman?" the man asks.

"Didn't you know?" Myshella wonders.

He doesn't respond.

"You are a strange one. He'll have a hard time cracking you. But I have promised him you will be compliant,"

"Will _I?_ I'm not sure what _I_ want,"

"He'll show you,"

"Yeah?" he questions, "Well that's one less thing I got to worry about. What about you?"

"I will continue my work," she halts, rephrases, "_Our_ work,"

"Why do you do it?" he queries.

"Hmm… no one's even asked me that before,"

She leans on the altar and considers the question.

"Back in the day, I always found mother's methods to be… _harsh_, overly so. But I understand why she did it. It's not her fault she was weak. She lacked the ability to teach us. How she treated my sister was… inhumane. But I understand _why_ she did it,"

"Go on," the man urges.

"In my youth, I couldn't fathom it, couldn't understand all the suffering. So I left. But you see… the outside world is so repulsive, teeming with unnecessary people. It didn't take long for me to realise what needed to be done. I knew I had to continue mother's work,"

"The town acts as a gateway, for him to pass through?" the man asks.

She nods, "And when he gets here, he will recreate the world in his image. Suffering, sin, avarice… all such things will be relics of the past,"

"Does this God have a name?"

"As humans, it is beyond our comprehension, even mine. God evolves. He changes with the times. Why, you wonder? To ensure he is best prepared for the day of his rebirth,"

"I can feel him, you know," the man says.

"Of course you can. He's inside you now. Your strength will help him grow,"

"How many have come before me?" he asks.

"Hundreds, maybe thousands," she sighs, "I lose track. Everyone has their cross to bear in this world. Only he can cleanse us, make us whole again. You won't be the last,"

The man lets out a defeated sigh, "How long will it take?"

"I cannot give you any measure of time. When he is ready, he will let me know. He will plant his seed. I am the walker between worlds. I am his Queen. I will birth him when the time comes. This task once fell to my sister, now it shall fall to me,"

"Just one more question, before I go," the man requests.

"Of course, my child," Myshella grants.

"Why does God want us to suffer?"

"My child, your concern is understandable," she sympathises, "Know this; God is neither here nor there, stuck in limbo between our world and the next. In order to provide that link, to make that connection he needs to guide his path, a strong emotion must be forged. The suffering, the hate… it is symbolic of our world. It keeps him alive, keeps him focused. He will use this negative energy until the time comes to change places with it, smiting misery from the face of this earth, marking the dawn of his resurrection!"

The man nods, relatively satisfied with this conclusion. He doesn't fully understand it, nor does it matter. All is done.

"Rest," Myshella says, placing a hand on his heated forehead, "Your deeds will not go forgotten. Sleep within thyself, where no further evils can harm you. Submit yourselves therefore to God. Resist the devil, and he will flee from you,"

She smiles at him with all the warmth in the world, and for the first time in all these years, he is at peace. She kisses him gently on the hand, before rising up and disappearing into the darkness.

The dank room seems like home. He looks down at the pistol in his hand. It feels cold when he presses it against his temple. The words of the yellow clad mechanic echo through his head, 'There is only _one way_ to escape,'

He pulls the trigger, but there's nothing but an empty click. He looks at the wound in his shoulder. _My final bullet_.

He can see something sitting atop the altar, a blade of some sort. He attempts to crawl over towards it but his body has long since given up.

"Can't even…" finish his sentence.

And then, a sudden realisation strikes him…

Fool, heathen! Escape is cowardice. Escape is blasphemy!

My destiny is more than sacrifice, it is _enlightenment_. God will take my soul upon himself and God will…


	20. Float up from dream, fall down

XX – Float up from dream, fall down 

Two doctors confer over a cup of coffee in a plain room of white paint.

"So Doctor Barton, what can you tell me about him?" the dark skinned Doctor asks.

"Well Doctor Fagan. Want the whole, sickening story, or will the short version suffice?" Barton replies.

"Let's make it fast," Fagan confirms, "I don't want to work over,"

"Hey, you're a Doctor. You work is your life, right?" Barton quips.

He chuckles slightly before resuming, "Very well. As you'll find out shortly, he remains in a vegetative state. His brain is damaged beyond repair. They say he's got schizophrenia, MPD, _and the rest_," he chortles sarcastically, "but seeing as he doesn't respond to stimuli, we can neither conform nor deny this. It could be that some trace of him is still responsive. They say it's possible _his mind is his world now_; that he _lives_ there, playing out his own fantasies and past experiences. Christ, how should I know, I just do forensics,"

"Where did he come from?"

"He's just your average Joe Public, nothing special, no previous criminal record. But here's the strange thing… before he reappeared, he'd been missing for two years. Vanished along with his wife and daughter," he stops to clear his throat, "He showed up in Brahams, a small town up north,"

"Yeah," Fagan confirms, "I'm familiar with it,"

"Yeah, well, now they're familiar with him too. What's first?" he says, flicking through a few pieces of paper, "He went on a rampage through the town, killed a bunch of gorillas at the Zoo. Moved on to the public park, killed an old man in a wheelchair feeding the ducks. Staved a dog's head in, then killed its master, a little boy, about nine years old,"

"Jesus," Fagan gasps.

"Jesus had no part in this, believe me. The victims weren't just killed, they were _maimed_. Cut up to high holy hell with a serrated dagger. The newspapers described it as a 'satanic ritual of an unknown cult'. Whatever it is, I just think he's totally insane,"

"Well, that's what I'm here to confirm," Fagan says, flushing the emotion from his face.

"Uh-huh," Barton confirms, "They say he took a few more people out in the park but there's only so much information the police are willing to release at this time. They're still informing the families and such,"

"That all?" Fagan asks.

Barton continues to read, "Oh no, there's more. The cop who caught him, uh… Finn Jones, died last night. He held on for forty-nine hours, but his wounds were too severe,"

Fagan tries to stay objective. He had to if he was going to get through the night.

Barton hasn't quite finished, "Next, he killed a Doctor, a psychiatrist, just like you. Then he escaped his cell and went to stay with his sister in the city. She didn't last long, drowned in her own swimming pool. Neighbours called in a disturbance; cops arrive and find him lying on a sun-bed merely ten yards from the floating corpse. He was locked in some kind of trance,"

"Okay," Fagan says, "Let's go take a look at our subject, shall we?"

"Right," Barton replies, "But exercise extreme caution in there. Like I said, the last guy we sent in him wound up dead. Battered his head against the wall and tore off his skin using only his fingernails,"

"But now he's unresponsive, right?" Fagan asks, loosening his collar.

"Yeah, but you never know when he could just… _snap out of it_." Barton warns.

"Well, you just make sure that armed guard has the safety off," Fagan jokes.

"Good to see your sense of humour is still with you, Martin. I just hope it survives the night," he pauses, "Oh and don't worry. We've trimmed Jack's fingernails,"

The lock on the cell door cracks open. The guard carries out one final check for belt buckles, pens, even the glasses on Doctor Fagan's face, anything that could be used as a weapon.

"Flexible arms," the sentry says, studying the glasses, "That's fine,"

The cell door remains open, the guard, alert.

Fagan eyes his patient, curled up in a ball in the corner of the room. His eyes are open but they don't register the Doctor's presence.

"Hello there," the Doctor says, extending his hand, "My name is Doctor F…"

"… Cole,"

A spark in Jack Crispin's brain… his eyes focus.

He looks up and smiles. He's positive, absolutely _certain_ he recognises this new Doctor from somewhere.

"I've seen you before, haven't I?" Jack asks, waiting patiently for the Doctor to finish shuffling through his papers.

Cole looks up at his subject, "Oh?"

"You're on T.V," Jack pinpoints, "World famous psychiatrist, Doctor Bradley Allen Cole,"

"My friends call me Cole,"

**FIN**

3


End file.
